This Is Not A Poem, But A Painting
The birds this evening are strung on the wires like black clothes pins holding nothing to the air. A chorus line of feather and hearts. Their nut scented breath song plays in behind the roaring cars that sound like deep inhaled breaths as they pass. We were told to always look west for the sunset colours are the best there. A swearing ship blonde, who smokes and tosses the cigarette off the side of the great gray metal fish, speaks on cargo and a coming storm to an uninterested man drumming his clipboard to a song in his head, that takes him miles away from here. This is what an evening is supposed to be. Sitting at the docks with a writing book and being the observer who is visible and invisible at will. Until I move to close the book, disrupting the film I'm not suppose to be in. Swearing sailors on the cargo ships turn to see the birds take flight over head in a swish of a blanket. I am gone before they turn back again.