Virus
This one wears a copper crown.
It corrupts as it breathes,
exposing itself in sickening
selfies and temerarious texts.

It lives among ruins ever
ruining lives. No trace of
remorse—its compass cracked.
A slimy poison spreading lies.

Now it sits in economy,
circulating febrile breath.
Soon it will land and find
its host. Infection guaranteed.

Nothing for Dinner
I made you nothing for dinner tonight,
though the fridge was full
and I had the time.

Just couldn’t think
of a thing to make:
Not even a stir-fried excuse.

Moulting
I fancied a pullet
they kept in a coop

enclosed in wire
and gold-plated barbs.

One day I tried to buy the bird,
but they wouldn’t sell it:

Their children, they said, would
miss their pet.

No cash. No trade.
No deal. No dice.

Weeks went by before
the fox tracked us down.

How could missing feathers
weigh so much?