There are about a dozen
Finches living in the bush
Out in front of the place
That I buy all my beer from
Every day at 4 or 5 in the evening
I pull into the same parking space
That I always pull into
I reach over the console
To the seat I always throw my wallet in
When I turn to grab them, I always see
My best friends, the finches
Living in their eternal bush
Living off of spilled gas station french fries
Living off shaky-handed meth heads
Losing half of their bacon, egg, and cheeses
On croissants
To the impossible to reach
Area right at their feet
I see the finches bask in half-filled
Over-sugared coffee drinks
And I see them feverishly peck out
The hungover throw-up stinks
That hit the ground
Out of the mouths
Of transients evacuating
Nearby tourist towns
I see my best and only friends
Live this life in this bush, and I think
They deserve better than this
As they watch me go inside
And come out with beer
And drive off
Every day
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