Gluebirds

A hooded falcon swoops
from the wire-laced sky to land
on the gloved and beckoning arm
of the leather-clad mannequin posed in front
of the porn shop by the side of the interstate.

Inside, coins clink into slots to trigger
invisible mechanisms. Tinny music dribbles
and drools. Computer screens flicker. Pages rustle, flip.
A tuft of down pasted to the paneling interrupts the path
of a single opalescent drip locked in a sluggish race
with itself towards the plywood floor.  

The machines grindand clatter. Soft-boiled eggs plop
into a hairy nest of coiled twine.
Fuzzy cobwebs garland the shelf of lotions.
One dusty tube has burst its seam,
leaving a scab of dried lubricant
encrusted along its spine.

A ribbon of gristle dangles from the raptor's talon.
A hand snatches off the hood off to prevent
the predator from flying away.
The bird blinks, twists its neck to eye
the dirt lot, listening to the snap
of plastic banners in the breeze.
A ragged magazine, slithered free of the store,
crackles beneath the flopping heel
of a balding snakeskin boot.
A truck roars past. A register drawer dingsopen. The hawk clamps shut its rusted eyes,
stretches its sticky wings, winches its dripping fistful
of feathers into the sky.