My wife tosses stale matzos from the patio door,
free from the supermarket at passover time,
if you distributed them today to the homeless,
through church charity, not worth a dime,
but for encircling seagulls, feasting is fine.
They swoop from the sky, clean the ground,
at the beach thay caw; here at our back condo lawn,
no calling sounds, not overt squalling brethren near,
"Look what we've found," they gather each morsel,
then fly silently, victoriously sated momentarily away.
Staring through the glass door
facing the ongoing scene, our cat, kahlua,
swishes her tail, haunches her bodily muscles,
affixed on the spot, dreaming of hidden forests,
veldt, wilderness, instinctive prey hunting,
ignoring her residence, dreaming of what she has not.
Are we too scavengers, picking up tidbits,
from the diningroom table, the kitchen sink,
morsels not earned, feeling incomplete.
Is living a search for the rich and the poor,
those who have everything seeking more,
or poverty's children, tattered clthing,
distended gnawing empty stomachs...
hopelessly destined generations...
civilization's failings, humankind's flaws.
2nd January 2003
Author: Roy Schoenberg - Bay Shore, New York.