The seagulls think we live at the seaside:
the tower blocks are their cliffs,
they swoop for fish in the gutter
but happy that it’s last night’s fried rice.
They stand about talking on the pavement beach
and ride the sea-breezes pumped out by the cinema air-conditioning.
They hover over the waves of cars
and if you stare at them
wondering what they’re doing so far from home
they stare back:
“This is our home now.
That kebab
Is a crab.”
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