Mood: Overrun
Drinking: All Done
The Pigeons Are Hatching a Plot
You are so afraid of getting dirty,
you will never find me beautiful.
And I am beautiful,
though not flashy and frightening,
not dashing and delight-ening
with soaring songs
or fanciful flights.
I am as gray as a stone
and white as a bone
and you can’t imagine
all the places I’ve flown
because you’re too distracted
by my leprous left foot
with its one remaining
dangling toe.
(I lost the other two to a
careless bicycle wheel
which also flattened the
plump crumb I was planning
to make my next meal.)
I walk with a bob and
a weave and a bob and a
what are you laughing at?
You are no more graceful than I
with your bunion toes
and your whisky woes.
All your children are mean to me.
Even your holy men throw rocks
and your grandmothers
(armed with Oldsmobiles)
can decimate whole flocks.
I’ve endured the most
embarrassing slurs,
you call me
“rat with wings” and other,
more indelicate things.
But someday I’ll show you.
Someday you’ll see.
We pigeons
are much more dangerous
than we’ve led you to believe.
-Lo, reading too much into it once again.
LaDonnaWitmer 