02 Aug 2017 – Sonnet

Here seagulls once demanded daily dues
for dining in their radiant domain,
domesticated fiends that cursing crews
fed well by flinging rotten fish remains.
Their taste for “Freedom fries” was thereby born
with that for pickle slices, stuck to buns,
with ketchup’s stepchild helping half adorned –
a patriarchal patience! Stale reruns!
The fishing scows and scupper clubs have closed,
the famished flock have fallen on hard times,
the boastful burger sovereign’s been deposed.
The roofing crumbles as the flora climbs.
Fat, lazy Time siestas, makes no sound.
How long before it brings what I’ve made down?