It looked like a coop, up there on the roof
where battery hens might have laid their eggs
then torn through the mesh, distressed
- just a couple of slates to escape -
if only they could scratch their way
up towards the sky
to the courtyard they swooped,
to Cafe Familiar's gathering groups
all clucking and flapping and pecking away,
all sticking out their necks
so far as to fit in.
How's it going?
What are your plans for today?
They'd test each other's wings against their own
These dull, brown feathered birds
too alike to be anything but,
too weak to fly anywhere else but home.