Metal Bird

There’s a metal bird on the roof.
It’s a TV antenna with a gaping beak,
catching the waves—or the bits.
Rear feathers bare, parallel, sunset-lit.
Aluminum pole for legs,
a flamingo for our age.
Never nesting, never flying,
numbing the patients with its medicine,
pumping us full of news,
as our blood is cleansed,
our minds are left
full of plastic.
Commercials blast us with their junk.
Mindfulness kicks in, and I go elsewhere.