Survivors
As if tracing a perfect, pre-destined route,
the bird soars
through the air,
turning that clichéd blue sky blindingly blue —
an afternoon sky
under which I am going postmodernly mad
A gaggle of customers stuck outside the restaurant
throngs round the entrance
not able to queue
Survivors
A bird, as if knowing where it is going, gliding perfectly
through
one straight line
the dazzlingly blue sky the sliding bird made while passing
through
that afternoon sky under which I wanted to become mad
postmodernly
people who were unable to find seats were standing at the
entrance of a restaurant
forming no queue.