Barnstorm
It was a chip. A simple french-fry
spread in ketchup and mayonnaise,
revealing itself on a traffic-island
opposite the dry-cleaners. Wings pulled -
lowering to ground, it assessed
a simple strip of potato.
I have never liked gulls. Wing-span
the length of seizing arms;
looping the circumference of my
scalp. It would take what it wanted:
a chip; my mind. Poker-face -
it circled for death.
