Still Life

Already the birds,

black and heavy, have congregated

above me, holding parliament

on the highest of the slack wires

outside my apartment.

I imagine them

squawking avian politics at each other,

like old men at Denny’s

after church, sipping

their black coffee,

flapping their wrinkles

over the new taxes, Earl’s cancer,

the Browns, not worth a damn.

All the talk flusters

their feathery hair.

And just before sunset

these early winter afternoons,

I come home and see

through the window

the familiar couple, well on

in years, spooning soup

into their slack mouths.

Between them a portrait of

a Byzantine Christ,

blessing everything in sight.