Birdman

Saw the Birdman in the park again,
scruffy, absorbed as if in another world,
arms outstretched, the dark seed
staining each palm; out of place, like
a declaration.

At his feet,
a churning mass of grey backs and
grey wings seethed. Birds balanced
on his arms, his head, hovered over
the cupped hands, scattering grain.

Gathering disapproval brought
a policeman shouldering through
the crowd.

Later, after we learned of other parks,
the dreams came: noise
too loud to hear, light too bright
to see. Dust falling on silent cellphones.

This is no time for playing games Birdman.
If you’ve got something to say,
say it. If you’re going to do something,
do it now.