Someone spilled coffee
on last Sunday’s comics.
The navy, charcoal,
hide-colored jackets
lurk by the kitchen window.
I hear mustaches.
There is
rhythmic bawking
in the near distance;
suspicious, for-warning
an executioner’s drumbeat.
Our feathered gladiators thump,
flap and crow, proudly.
I follow the pre-lit path
to the illuminated doorway;
the sign points the way
to where the men decide our fates.
