Birdbrain

You line your nests with strips of cloth

Stars and stripes of nylon comfort,

That you'll choke down before you cross the bridge,

Like we choked on tear gas.

You follow the migratory instinct

Only of birds of a feather

That shines crimson like yours,

We will find you washed up on the beaches of tomorrow

Bleached in the sun and picked over by vultures

With a pile of shiny mylar from a Fourth of July pinwheel

As a synthetic headstone,

Forever engraving your patriotism.

Do you feel like a martyr, birdbrain?