From where I sit
on this squalid parkbench
the sky swollows the clouds
as the little boy throws
what I'm sure is stale bread
to the pigeons milling around
at his feet.

They attack the ground
searching searching searching
for a tiny piece of something
that doesn't even taste good
something that will not fill them
but rather cry out to starvation
still, they're searching searching
searching, so earnestly.

I'm sure the snow is frigid
in between the toes of
their diminutive feet
and I find myself wanting to
just scoop them all up,
and carry em' home in the crevices
of my winter-jacket,
still smelling slightly like mothballs
from the deep dark closet,
where I pulled it out of.

Tomorrow,
I will be the boy with bread,
maybe even seeds
I'll see what I can do,

Because even dirty pigeons need
warmth from the cold
white blankets
that cover this town.

12/16/2003

Author's Note: Ah man, I have too big of a heart. I'll probably delete this later or something..

Posted on 12/17/2003
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