Wednesday, July 16, 2008

The Pigeon

Winged little tramp
scampering around the streets on three toes
or flying tiny distances;
always singing to the next bird.

You're filthy
and your neck seems
to sheen with the
multi-hued gleam of oil
in sunlight.
And it looks as if
your feathers
have all been
And your lips are
all black
from eating garbage.
Yet you hold your chin high
bobbing your head
in arrogance,
the proudest beggar
I have ever seen.

Fly home to your vagabond's
roost. Gawking down on the city,
perched like the hawk.
If I saw people from
that vantage point
I would also be
and dirty.

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