A book’s pages spin and flutter
Like the lifting-off of a flock
A dazzle of gray and black and white
Wings scraping the air
The sky bleeds cool and clear
And wet the ink
And the rain runs into the drains
And a loner,
A pigeon with blue sides
It looks at the bench
Where someone used to sit
And scatter their feed
It doesn’t understand why it looks at the bench
For it was his grandfather who was fed here
To him it was an age before him
But the man is not there anymore
But the pigeon still looks at the wrought iron
And feels, suddenly, like he should have lunch.
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