Scavenger Logic

The sandwich bread is a little bit stale,

but the one-legged bird doesn't seem to mind.

He lands on the bench like a piece of mail

addressed to the crumbs I’ve left behind.

He has this way of holding his head,

a tilt of oil-slick purple and grey,

waiting for me to finish my bread

so he can take what I’m throwing away.

No schedule to keep, no grudge in his chest,

just the grit of the city under his wing.

He doesn't care if I’m at my best

or if I’m not worth a goddamn thing.