13,316. SO MANY PIGEONS

SO MANY PIGEONS

I've left now many things behind,

things I thought I'd once be remembered

for, but not, as it's turned out, forgotten

instead. My name is but etched on

gravestone memories of a cotton-moss.

Green, but not with envy, for sure.

-

The ground here gets covered, and I

dream of many things : doorways

and city entrances, in places

I've never been. Faces I once may

have seen, but never remembered,

yet here they turn up again. Like

a living highway headed down to 

the south, I am passing old geezers

in luxurious cars.

-

'Shhh, now; it's only a dream. They

are running down south for their

Winters. We call them Snowbirds.

You call them Pigeons, I guess :

the same scavengers who pick in

the alleys, alighting on poles and

cooing for food.'