Into the Teeth of the Wind
Selected poem from Volume III, Issue 4
Of the Seagull Waddling up Chapala St.
During 5:00 pm Rush Hour
With what trust he makes his way weaving between
two lanes as if drunk headed away from the sea
testing the waters, so to speak, of human flight,
seemingly confident he will not be struck,
his head cocked just so, first right then left.
Does he understand the madness of this stroll
or is he like many of us, wandering in the desert
not sure who we are, off course?
We slow for his passing as he crosses the line
in front of that red Mercedes convertible,
not giving a flinch as it slams on its brakes
and shouts scoot! Maybe this gull is simply dazed
with the heaviness of monsoon air,
those postings of pollution,
ravens set loose on a beach further north
to chase his kind away from the shore
where their droppings make unsightly mess.
We understand bad press, but oh seagull
don’t tread here like a fool. Be an angel,
lift up on those broad wings as you were meant.
There are more fish in the sea than here.