Seagulls with Sequins

She quickly disrobes, then
dons her bird wings. Otherwise
naked she dives through the
window into wanton rhythms and
churlish challenges to my caged
decrepitude. Slithering on waxy
winds she swirls up my floo-less
chimney, trims the tree of my
titillation and grasps me by the
tinkling, tinsel-draped balls. "You're
well-hung, baby." I move down a
branch and sideways, hoping to skew her
over-estimation of my holiday
spirit. Cart-wheeling in my
exhaled lust she recovers, folds
in her wings and stands, perfect,
hair-sprayed and shiny 'top
the pre-911 twin towers of my
preemptive good and indulged evil.