The Seagull Poem by Morgan Michaels

One day in the hot sun, under a mackerel sky
on a bench in a parking lot, waiting
for a bus to Kingston Station, wielding
fans, we found ourselves approached
by what? a lost-looking seagull-
bow tie-less, but in charcoal
tails and a light gray vest,
waddling formally our way.
'Now what, ' I wondered, pulling in my feet,
'could it possibly want with us?
Spare change? ' So far from the sea
did we look like sardines? I watched as
it drily toed
the sun-softened tarmac; as it padded closer
on stalks half-lit like hollyhock stems
I saw in a painting once.
There was much to admire
in the feathery plush of its breast,
whitecap-white but whiter when the breeze blew it back;
I clucked at the way its level head swiveled
smoothly, side to side, rudder-like;
chuckled at the way its scimitar beak,
yellowed and notched, swerved
this way and that, like a tiller;