Three Pigeons
One day there were three pigeons.
They share
a warm puddle of water
from last night’s rain.
It’s midday now,
over a hundred degrees.
The puddle evaporates
too soon,
for,
later,
the birds are
thirsting a drink
but the puddles have gone.
The three pigeons,
Beaky, Quackers, and Flappy,
aren’t thinking of
any particular grand thing.
Everything is grand.
The puddle,
aqueous and shiny,
though it is really
quite small,
suits them well as they
speak in pigeon pidgin,
a language remarkably
like our own.
So Beaky says to Flappy,
Hey, Flappy! How are ya?
And Flappy says,
Great! Everything’s great!
But Quackers
don’t feel so great
cause a car
just pulled in
and it’s heading
for the pigeon puddle rest stop.
And that’s one way to talk about pigeons.
Here’s another.
One day
there were three pigeons
with no names that we know of
so people gave them names like
Beaky, Quackers, and Flappy.
They led simple
but orderly lives.
Beaky says to Flappy,
Hey, Flappy! How are ya?!
And Flappy says
yada yada yada.
Pigeons fly beautifully.
I enjoy watching them.
Sometimes
I have a flying dream,
a-way-up-on-high astral dream,
unaware of any role
assigned me so,
like the pigeons,
I am free.
So Quackers
says to Flappy and Beaky,
How ‘bout we go downtown
and shit on people’s heads?
So they
go downtown
and shit on people’s heads and
there
they
find
God.
Or something.
Just three souls,
immersed in the cosmic choir
of an ever-changing reality so mind blowing
that it’s no wonder I still don’t understand poetry.
