Squawks of terror from
mother and child,
a scene never making Hitchcock's
final cut. Competing gulls flap,
swoop,
kamikazi dive bomb
for fallen fried clams. Boardwalkers smeared
in cocktail sauce and blue cotton candy
sweet and sticky. Shrills sounding,
"kitta-wa-aaakee, kitta-wa-aaakee"
as wings slap in spun sugary goo.
She is tarred and feathered.
Gull down! Gull down!
Weekend warriors in Atlantic City
never saw it coming.

The sea wind whips westward
and ocean regurgitates all matter
of gunk. Tampons, syringes, punctured
floaties in shapes of ducks and dragons,
it is ever there
in the gleaming reflection of casinos,
for homeless veterans
to scavenge upon.

Even wounded gulls eat better.