We are
a flock of
unidentified birds;
wing-flapped,
stagnant in a migration
too inherited to decipher.
Our bartender
rattles her penny
for the double shot
poured into
the night’s blurred
pecking order.
It’s anyone’s game
with the rain against
soft feathers while
we wait to catch
the snow.
Pamela A. Lamppa
Copyright © 2012
all rights reserved
.
