Scavenger Logic

The bread is dry and the ham is too salty.

Inside the office, the air is recycled breath,

but out here the birds don’t ask for a memo.

One lands near my shoe, dragging a stump

where a toe used to be.

He looks at the crust with a cold, black eye.

The sun hits his throat and for a second

it’s not a bird, it’s a slick of gasoline

on a wet parking lot. He’s winning.

He’s eating. I’m just on break.