On the slippery lip of another spectacular
downtown plaza
fountain, misty,
wrecked with calcium—
wet, spindly finches
and fat,
grimy pigeons
with bulging chests and distended necks
preen and quaver—
but never flinch,
because they
and cannot bring themselves
to resent
these important men
who insist on
crisscrossing them—
sanguine
in their heavy,
requisite blazers,
gesturing and cogitating,
with only
their impeccable
sunglasses—to keep them
cool.
