Shuffle of White Wings.

Fighting cold, fighting cramp,

Seeking shelter in the back of

A windowless morning cold car.

Greedily shovelling yesterday’s grease

Into a care-starved face;

Needing to put bread into a

Bank called tomorrow -

The one she didn’t believe in,

The one that grew too close,

Too damned fast.

She is aware of the shuffle

Of clean white wings,

But can’t decide:

Is it an angel calling?

Dead-eye, black head gull?

Or her gone-gone baby?

12/2/2013

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