He wakes up to the fart of dawn
That crackles through his radio,
Attuned to local FM waves
That scrunch and stretch before they wake.
He takes a while to find his feet,
And then a while to find his socks,
And then a while to slipper on
Before he thup-thups to the roof.
He pulls a hand to shield his eyes,
He puts the other in a bag,
And sifts the seed between the tips
Of kishmish fingers bit by lime.
He hates the birds he daily feeds.
He hates their constant gootergoo.
He hates their carpet-bombing poop.
And yet he spreads the seed around.
He wonders if his nagging wife
Can see him through the cyclone clouds.