After each big event,
each round of applause
for some great cause,
or what was Heaven-sent,
they scurry far back
under the stands,
pecking at big plans,
scratching into the cracks,
and cast deliberate shadows
with stubby wings
onto all good things,
while huddling from each blow
they’re sure will come. Humdrum,
as sighs and moans
dried chicken bones,
they bum
you down
from any height
to which you might
have flown.
Killjoy. Killjoy,
their evening call
of dash and spoil.
Killjoy. Killjoy.
