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.