Avian Nuisance

I’m out on the iron grate, leaning back

where the rust meets the brick. One of them

lands with a dry scratch, three inches from my boot.

It has a stump for a toe, a pink knot of scar.

It’s hacking at a Snickers wrapper, convinced

there’s a payday in the foil. The neck moves

in a jittery, mechanical grease-slick of purple—

a localized bruise against the soot of the alley.

We are both just waiting for a handout

or a mistake. It looks at me with an eye

like a burnt orange bead, unimpressed by the smoke

I’m blowing into its small, grey face.

It finds a crust, hard as a pebble,

and swallows it whole. Then it’s gone,

a heavy clap of wings that sounds like

somebody trying to start a fire with wet wood.