a seagull on a crowded street

A gospel of strong wings gulps words from the air
like a thick hungry gullet under a melancholy sky.
"Too blue, too blue," a worn wan voice screeches over
the heads of sketched people as they hold the moment
unframed. Their steps from then to now hover cautiously
below the extended dirty white feathers that wisp
their tussled hair and raised voices, the sunlight and city.
A breeze shifts from china town with the scent of MSG 
up Washington Street down Franklin Street
where beautiful bodies bounce,  re-coiffed with newly sculpted
angles, their bodies as bait hooked on sore legs
to catch the attention of only each other. It is annoyance
this flapping too close to their ears where they might learn
the sound of poetry. It is unforgivable to be less
than gorgeous where they might walk with furrowed brow
and stinging muscles. It is unthinkable to smell of meat
where they chew on leaves and stink of ever faddish faux-flower.
With a sharp squawk, obvious yet oddly unheard
i climb.