Urban Poultry

I’m tearing the sourdough into small crumbs,

trying to eat while the world moves too fast.

The flock is a circle of vibrating hums,

waiting for something of mine to be cast.

One lands on my sneaker, a bold, dusty grey,

with a pink, swollen nub where a foot should have been.

It taps on the leather in a rhythmic, blunt way,

looking for mercy in a city of sin.

It doesn't feel pity. It doesn't feel small.

It just wants the crust and a place to belong.

We’re all just surviving the weight of the fall,

turning our limping into a song.