Who said the Birds aren’t singing the gospel
And the gutter isn’t the base in the choir
Their deep notes dripping down the back of their throats
Their song garbled
The ominous open mailbox frowning at the musicians
An angry patron clad in steel and chrome snorts and charges off
Leaving a wake of silence
The canary trees with their full plumage laugh at their naked neighbors
Pointing with soft opulent fingers at the craggy starved masses
The white-bearded mutt walks between the trees,
Its nails tipped with phosphorus striking the asphalt below
A dull robin perches on the bony body of a close tree
The Priest at the dinner party
Stretches wide its beak
In the distance a fully blown soccer ball hits the pavement with an unsatisfying thud
And the choir sings of twisted good news