pecking for crumbs

Charles,

in a deep black back alley,

resumes spitting at the few birds pecking for crumbs,

perfectly shirtless and unconsciously proud of his few chest hairs,

he quizzically looks

at the sun,

confident he will never run

from imagined or actual fears.

he eats alone in his unassuming flat,

where an empty bird cage hangs,

resembling a southern cross.

Charles,

in a practiced stupor of his own design,

and with a pen he grabs too well,

screams often in an elemental voice harsh with scornful intent

about his social security check which wasn't sent

on time

and that he'll never attempt to write academic rhyme

and feels proud of it,

unaware of what it means.

Charles,

always gruff and all that stuff,

tries to beat and beat and beat,

lifting both feet

to praise convention and to make a mark or a smear

of some sort or the other within the boundaries of the social frontier,

where a few birds are pecking for crumbs. 

the birds resemble Charles,

who spreads his wings for no reason

and becomes his own bird.