I’ve watched ants tread beneath the pale-moon
Shadows cast by these fluorescent bulbs;
Moths stuck in the cobweb skies

Will flutter ‘til daytime
Serves them up for Continental breakfast.
Cloudy California mornings can taste like cold batteries

Half-full in the fridge and slowly draining out.
Those red-eyes from last night?
They’ve all sobered up. By seven,

I’m scattering the crumbs
Of an oxen mountainside
Whose over-conglomerated shoulders

Support our Western shore –
But its just the latest cove
To soak-in a sunrise.

And where our highway bends,
Another cement slab jabs at the frothing sea
so unpleasant waters are kept

At bay; here the kaleidoscopic
Splotches of seagulls swerve through the traffic
Of a rush-hour circus

With frumpy old ringmasters
Frocked in gray sweats
Who parcel out paper-thin wafers to the frenzied masses,

Even though
The sign states
In white and red,
Clear as a blue day,

Do Not Feed The Birds –
Because our latest findings show
That their population would grow
Beyond what we want our natural environment to harbor.