My garden is full of mechanical birds
they flutter freely
build real nests,
splatter synthetic shit
with abandon.
The feathers are painted
by gifted interns
paid nothing
but allowed to hold a bird
once a week.
I track the flock
on my phone until
tapping the screen
brings them back to my shed
where I pull apart wires,
break fragile necks,
watch the light fade,
then in the morning
solder the world
together again.
John Porter is a poet based in Gloucestershire. His work has appeared in publications including “The Stinging Fly”, “Prole” and “Strix”.
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This article appears in the 25 Nov 2020 issue of the New Statesman, The last days of Trump
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