Through the throng

of two-legged traffic,

the feral beaked stumbles

melancholically in people’s way,

side stepping with three crossed

tango, beak down, resentment

building as old dinosaur rage

and blood courses through

it veins, stooped in cowardice

and fluttering disease, it pecks

against the storm and the rush

of legs, whilst high above, looking

down on the world with smug eyes,

the seagull lives on, perpetually

ready to shit downwards, happy

to see the feral tango back and forth

in between shuffling