In the sun-warmed and humid Orlando, Florida,
Mid-afternoon has set itself in,
And in the midst of Hollywood Studios,
There is an ibis.
He has made a killing on tourist food
Fed by the rebels who disregard signs.
I see this ibis, though I don't feed it,
And realize how far I am from home.
He struts around, for this is where he belongs
And he is unaware.
He looks at me. He doesn't know me.
And yet I stare back wondering if he did.
He turns away,
Back to the food the rebels throw.
He's so different than what I know,
For tropical birds live in the tropics,
And not in the north.
His white feathers lie still
While he eats with a bubblegum pink beak.
The humidity sets in around me.
It doesn't bother him at all.
And all of the bugs,
That have bothered me since day one
Simply dance.
No comments:
Post a Comment