With my shoulder aching
From the weight of my work satchel
I stopped to sit
On a park bench by a statue.
Slate-grey bronze pushed skyward,
On a plinth of concrete, high as my head.
Some centuries-ago city father.
Lowering the satchel to the ground,
At last, I turned my attention to my lunch:
Hot chips, small bag.
$6.50. Regular salt.
And then the seagulls arrived:
Swivel-necked and stony-eyed,
Reeled in by the steaming tang
Of salt and fat.
They commenced barging and cackling,
Vying for prime position
Like an unwashed crowd
At a three-day concert.
And wailing toward me
With throttled vibrato.
Really putting their necks into it.
I cast out one or two chips as I ate,
Watching the warm morsels met each time
By a headlong rush, spearing and snatching,
Claimed by the quickest draw.
The losers shrieking brief lamentations,
Before pivoting back
To the wondrous origin.
I spotted one bird,
Perhaps ten metres and
Too many rows back.
Close by the statue’s poo-spattered plinth.
It stood on just one twiggy leg,
Outmatched in this anarchy,
This world of swoops and shoves,
Bleating uncertainly.
I lobbed a fat chip toward him,
As you do.
The feral gaze of his competitors tracked
The chip's wobbly flight,
Their bodies already angling,
Fast-twitching to rush and tackle.
But my aim was good:
Aid arrived too swiftly to be
Confiscated by bullies and ruffians.
One-Leg caught it with warming skill.
He split and swallowed half instantly.
And with a brief flap for momentum,
Glided behind the plinth
To finish the rest unbothered.
But I'd been watching closely . . .
The second before he vanished from view
(And with my face drawing into an irate pinch)
I'd seen that bird put his other leg down.
Seconds later,
Having scoffed his prize,
He discreetly returned to the
Back of the screeching rabble.
And what do you think happened then?
As his peers fretted and implored and
Fixed on my diminishing supply,
He pattered out to the rear flank,
Swivelled to face me,
Tucked one leg utterly out of sight
And once again
Began bleating woe in my direction.
I just stared.
My charitable hand now motionless.
The garbled chorus grew louder.
One gull strutted boldly close to me
But wheeled back again,
As if avoiding eye contact,
As if that was just a mistake.
One-Leg continued mewling from the flank.
I looked down at the bag in my hand,
White paper now dappled dark with chip sweat.
A couple left, over-yellow like stale butter.
A brittle, woody one below those.
Runnels of loose salt at the bottom.
I wasn't hungry anymore, anyway.
Too busy wincing,
Having suddenly seen myself,
Sitting there,
Acting the Moral Judge of Seagulls.
And before that surely a King,
Delighting in his own benevolence
Toward the wretched and downtrodden.
In fact, hadn't I imagined my generosity
As even more marvellous?
To the birds my blessings were surely
Something inscrutable, ecstatic.
Like divine rain suddenly shimmering
Over the parched crops of
Weeping Calvinists.
Now sitting embarrassed
Before the sharp gaze
Of creatures already gifted
With a humble knack for pattern-recognition.
Canny fish-catchers
With little imagination,
But who know a resource
When they spot one.
I tossed the remaining chips carelessly
To the noisy throng and stood up
Dusting salt from my hands,
Perhaps a little too showily.
I scrunched the empty bag into my pocket,
Scrunched my face into a smile,
And looked around, scanning above the fray.
I noticed the statue was darkening
As the winter sun dipped,
And glanced down at my watch.
Then grunted as I picked up my heavy bag
To start back toward work.
It's all done with mirrors 