Pigeons

 Pigeons

 

If

I was to die float belly down upon here thinking

of those pigeons at this pool water drinking

their feathers plugging airways and waterways bereft

and I relinquish some microscopic hold I had

on just this side of depression sanity life death

perhaps wield with firm grasp that fruit knife

I just used to rip the red guts out of this pizza

Margarita’s yielding corn for hatchlings born

ascend that parapet swallow dive no regret

prove once and for all – look, Ma - Angels plummet

were not born to fly with a grin and with a wink

for you raise me up and you spin me around

in diving assent search out that lower ground

and all our concrete’s splitting teeth not grief

here they are still laying eggs billing cooing

what all those pigeons were born for doing

minor character in my own penny dreadful drama

or someone written in by somebody else all ham

phoned in murder me in Act 2 give a damn or not

if I’m a rested in pieces written out jobbing clot:

those careless pigeons would still be strutting

all necking all flecking all pastry cut cutters cutting.