The Sidewalk Poultry

The train goes over and the iron screams.

I am standing where the light is thin.

A bird hops close to a greasy box.

It has a missing toe.

It doesn’t fly when I shift my weight.

The neck is a sudden, oily flash—

purple and green in the concrete heat.

It looks like a puddle behind a garage.

It is just a thing that decided to stay

even when the sky is wide

and the tracks are just a way

to be somewhere else, but not yet.