Drunk Flamingos

By Alyce Wilson

My neighbor's flamingos are all drunk, tilting on their metal legs, lurching dangerously. One touches its beak to earth.

They weren't always like this: once they reigned regally in his front yard, a flock of pink. Lately, they are faded, faltering.

Perhaps it's understandable, the economic climate being what it is, that even a plastic flamingo could take to drink. But it's sad to see them reach such a disreputable state, who once were so proud, strutting and preening, daring any porcelain duck or garden gnome to challenge them.