poem of the day: smidgeon

A book’s pages spin and flutter

Like the lifting-off of a flock

A dazzle of gray and black and white

Wings scraping the air

The sky bleeds cool and clear

And wet the ink

And the rain runs into the drains

Rushing

And a loner,

A pigeon with blue sides

It looks at the bench

Where someone used to sit

And scatter their feed

It doesn’t understand why it looks at the bench

For it was his grandfather who was fed here

To him it was an age before him

But the man is not there anymore

But the pigeon still looks at the wrought iron

And feels, suddenly, like he should have lunch.