Minor Poetry
At night the seagulls fly
over Pier 11 downtown
through the night sky turned
arc-sodium orange by
pollution and the reflection
of the city lights
The sky becomes a screeching
carpet of them sometimes,
until they light on the
railings and stare at the
people who linger too late
waiting for a way off the island
Why do they come here, in
a city full of harbors?
Why do they blanket
a concrete peninsula
to pass the night?
Is this their bar? Their
after-hours pub? Or is it
more like a zoo where they
can watch the odd creatures
that slink along the cracked
asphalt below them as they
fly – free to leave this island
whenever they choose.