Flightless Men

Three perched adjacent Talons curled against the tar-black wire. Eyes unstable, blinking arbitrarily Complacent in void and victims of tire After a long night’s flight. The rumbling of engines and screaming of brakes Sway the sweet cable And the three gentlemen wake, Agitated by the morn’s mating call. Four, five, six trickle to the tiny twitters and tweets And the enigmatic heat Rising from the sagging string Like swirling steam up a mug of coffee Or flying children off a blue-chained swing. More men flock and ten, eleven, twelve Sit to a dock beginning to delve Into incessant conversation While the first three stay seated still As if they had always been, always were, and always will. The sun, too used and worn to supply, Abandons her Earth, slewing goodbyes, And bombing behind tears into the dirt’s womb. One claw rips rubber Red, yellow, blue yarn revealed. Currents unsealed and glowing waves Transfer through each hair, ear, and nail Each wing, beak, and tail, And in no sequential order do they Plunge towards cement Off the torn tavern tight-rope. And maybe some revival is viable Some hope of recovery, Some idea of discovery, But the singed feathers And electrifying dreams Are run-over by rolling wheels And the light in high-beams.