The birds feed from my open palms.
Sometimes they land on my head and pull
at my hair or
search for worms in the creases of my dress.
Cars bleating along the highway
scare them away, but they always come back.
The police sirens are the worst, five or six in a row
with so many about,
that one of them would have found me by now.
I hope they do soon
while there’s still something left of me