sidestep the hurrying feet
old order Amish
on a tenth floor balcony
al fresco lunch
will you drown, little bird
in these human streams?
Sparrow on the warehouse step
huddled against the March wind
a bit of fluff on the splattered steel
searching for a crumb.
No food for you, poor bird,
unless you find in the dumpster;
among the trash and flattened boxes
some workman’s lunch leavings,
a stale office-party doughnut.
Only cardboard, steel, concrete
in the industrial section of town.
We make the ovens, the baking pans,
and hopefully some dough to share
but no bread for shivering waifs.