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