Little fighter-pilot parents swoop
into their nest three stories
high in the hospital breezeway.
A chalice of gob and mud
atop the sprinkler-head cups,
tiny ostomies of endless hungers.
Scissor tails swallow the air, clipping,
clipping. What are the questions
I should be asking here as droppings
mound up on the concrete steps
around my feet like splotched offerings?