Birds of a Feather

an unseasonal oppressive torpidity 

envelopes a bland peculiarly

milky November sun,

three tired old men

overdressed for midweek matters

squat snugly on an overpainted 

wrought iron bench,

shoulder to shoulder

like fat budgerigars,

they occasionally shuffle

their feet and wave their hands 

as tap-dancing mothers might 

to shoo away pestering children

thus discouraging the squabbling pigeons

that mither over fast food detritus,

one man passively considers

the irritating persistence

of the scavenging birds

afloat in a ketchup-smeared 

polystyrene barge,

a second nostalgically regards

the reckless lunging tackles

of schoolboy footballers

caged within a rusting

long abandoned tennis court,

the third stares intently

with the considered appreciation

of a competition judge

awaiting a likely knicker flash

from the young girl on the swing

*

© Graham R Sherwood 11/22