and cream-colored pigeons
are gobbling down the sidewalk shade,
leaving droppings in their wake
like greasy clues
to secret undiscovered neighborhood
places—storm drains stuffed
with leaves and cigarette
packs and old beetle shells,
erased bus stops, and the smelled
tang of dog shit and some
nearby dead rat—all linking
like keys to locks, with these
nauseous and
depressing spells; how dare we care
for one another? Does every book
need a cover? How do I say I don't care
in a way that still matters?
Then, something warmish
and sudden: a flap. The littlest
ripple, and they are gone—with
or without the wind—on wings
they could only have
stolen from me.
