This poem was originally in third person plural, but I changed it to second. It makes the meaning of the poem change slightly and makes it more personal.
Snow Bird
You travel south for the
winter,
your wrinkled hands
steer your RV.
You park in the grand
lot of Arizona
where you nest, squawk,
sip margaritas,
lay out your creaking
joints, and sleep.
One night in the RV park,
you watch
a woman and her two boys
fight the police,
drop their back packs
and belongings;
rounded up like livestock
and cuffed.
Their things sit in the
dust until you
get up and throw all of
it in the trash.
The next day you wake up
slow,
stretch, make breakfast,
strong coffee,
rustle your wisps of
gray hair,
perch in the sun, and
watch like a crow;
your beak bitter and
sharp.
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