Founding Feathers

Forty-seven seagulls line the roof’s edge

like syphilis-ridden old men with

flakey, balding heads;

shitting on everything around them—

stern eyes and yellowed teeth—

looking down upon me along their prominent beaks,

ruling over—perhaps ruing—

my presence,

their immense appetites bulging over

webbed feet.

Hanging on to the gutter filled

with their waste,

they feign fear of me,

safely out of harm’s reach,

but they watch, conniving away

in that entitled, self-righteous language

that only seagulls speak.