The Pigeons

When I looked up, it frightened me to see
them, the way they huddled unspeaking together,
how world-weary they seemed. Not moving,
pencil-tipped beaks stabbing into statuary flesh,
nebulous as forgotten smears of dusk.
So encompassing and desperate their rest
it drugged the eyes into talismanic stupor.

At that moment my body had never felt so heavy.
My spine itched to etch a sentence into the fog-
mouthed ground. I peered dimly at the patina
of grimy cold encircling greystone columns,
like in New York, though I've never truly been
there. A handful of wires once handed me
permission to disengage from this life, asking
nothing in return.

With a hollow sigh I flicked my cigarette into
the black, wet finger of the street. I turned
and left the pigeons alone, soft-warm lumps
of mausoleum coal.