Prospero’s court

He comes from nowhere,
leans his bike against the wall,
stills the carrier bags
swinging from the handlebars,
extracts one pack of rice
and ambles to his throne.

Wall-eyed, he calls,
casts the grain; the birds swoop in,
feeding from his feet,
his hands, the air and still they come
until he stands,
ambles back, is gone.