Saturday, October 24, 2020

Two Pigeons

Two Pigeons

They’ve perched for hours
on that window-ledge, scarcely   
moving. Beak to beak,

a matched set, they differ   
almost imperceptibly—
like salt and pepper shakers.

It’s an event when they tuck   
(simultaneously) their pinpoint   
heads into lavender vests

of fat. But reminiscent   
of clock hands blandly   
turning because they must

have turned—somehow, they’ve   
taken on the grave,   
small-eyed aspect of monks

hooded in conferences
so intimate nothing need
be said. If some are chuckling

in the park, earning
their bread, these are content   

to let the dark engulf them—

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