The Walk-In

Ten minutes left on the clock.

The pharmacy door slides open and shut

with a sigh of refrigerated air.

He lands on the rim of the green trash can,

balancing on a left foot

that’s missing three toes.

A blunt, pink stump of a bird.

He doesn't seem to mind the limp.

He just looks for a crust of something,

his neck feathers turning oil-slick purple

in a puddle of spilled soda.