​Ah, Bird Poop Van
 
Ah, bird poop van,
there in the far corner of the fast food lot
where wind-blown paper congregates,
and you squat against the curb,
 
Old rusted Ford Econoline home,
spattered with a thousand puked starbursts
of smell on your dull finish,
a metal fadedness of has been.
 
Your owner in his tourist-trash hat
and long dirty hair hanging to his collar,
squats on white splattered grass,
grizzled before his future demise,
a throwback to Ashbury
where he used to panhandle.
 
He sits with his wilted wildflower
in her faded jeans splotched with patches,
sipping their mocha coffee on the matted grass
wary for the squad car to cruise by again,
and roust them out of their corner nest
under the gilded arches.
 
But, oh, you rest and rust so easy–
at least there are no fowl in sight.
 
 
​
--Dan Wilcox
First published in The Bicycle Review,
also in amphibi.us, Dead Snakes,
and the poetry collection, selah river

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