Another difficult day.
I have mislaid         something.

The chuckle-cluck-chortling snort
of an unidentified bird
tucked behind a eucalypt fork, tells me off.
You're falling down on the job -
Dusky Moorhen complaining now,
strutting past,
floor manager-style,
hands hookyed behind back,
signalling: I am a cut above;
impatiently flipping up
finger-feathers -
I'm alert to you, I am,         malingerer.
So are all your hens,
alert to you,
I mean,
with your Peacock-blue vest
and your insulting bird-flip-flash,
exposing your randy Y-fronts,
the seat-flap-end, anyway.
The uniformly clad
brown and black shop-girls
all tuned in to your clack
of comment,
know exactly where you range.
Lord of all you survey,
delicately placing twigged,
segmented toes
fine as spectacle wire -
How's that? You seem to say,
Is that not the finest set
of masculine feet
that have ever drawn womanly eye?
Apparently so,
for the girls all gaggle
to goggle
and acclaim.
Rain coming down now,
fat elliptical bombs,
micro-world-destroying drops -
it's closing time -
last call for purchases.
Mr. Affectation
frantically shepherds the hens
off floor -
wouldn't do to lose one -
hurrying them,
wickedly insistent,
all high knee stepping and flurrying worry and spasming tail feathers.

http://carolinabirds.org/People/HarrisonJJ_LG/Swamphen,_Purple_Sale_Australia_JJ_Harrison.jpg