oddly they prowl as owners of the land
where we once littered,
plunging their long beaks as they command.
“those are bin chickens” me mate once said
as we sat down, devouring our hot chips,
“careful mate, they’ll bite off your head.”
bin chickens? one has the right to feel scared
threatening with their presence gleaming,
on the grating metal our eyes paired.
a watery bird
a restless creature, an endless search
its sickle-shaped beak lies there quite absurd.
dumpster diving, debris-dirt-drawn
lurching, hurling, perching
swarming bins from dusk to dawn.
in it’s ecstasy, scoffing down the scraps
fruit, vegetables, onion rings,
it’s pride, it is joy, those feathery wings flap.
the breeze releases from its clutch
my nose goes into hiding,
“mate, the bloody bin chickens smell so much.”
picnic pirate, wreckless scavenger
slurping the juice of the food we refuse,
“mate that bird is a challenger.”
you have originality, that we can praise
bin chicken, you’re a true blue aussie,
with your lazy honk, and rapid escapes.
perhaps we could shine and bathe
in your bright smelly gleaming light,
the true title ibis, in the vast swathes,
there you feel just right.
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