Feathered Misfortune

What came first, the bird, or the egg?
Well, I spotted the dead pigeon on Monday night
As I was walking down the embankment
Trying not to breathe too many fumes
Still shivering from an over-chilled office
And shocked at the sight of mangled grey feathers,
A broken neck and damaged wings
I wondered if it had been hit by a vehicle
Or disorientated, had flown beak-first
Into a mirrored tower block
Before plummeting to the pavement below.
I had no answers. Nor did anyone seem
Too interested in the fate
Of an earthbound, flying sky-rat.
I walked home, pondering
The funeral rites of a feathered pest.
The next day, passing the other way
I saw it was still there.
Must have been missed by the road sweepers
Or deliberately ignored as someone else’s problem.
That evening, Tuesday after work
I felt sure someone would have mentioned it
And had the bird disposed of
But no.
Nudged off the pavement into the gutter
At the side of the road
Still a crumpled heap. Grey feathers dirty
From the road dust and oil residue.
I walked on.
By Wednesday evening, the bird was gone.
This morning, I took a different route to work
Staying on the bus to the museum
Then walking the few blocks North to the river.
As I passed under a bridge, I saw an egg
Shell cracked, yolk scattered on the ground
Dirty down feathers floating
While trains rattled above, shaking the shadows
A lone pigeon fluttered overhead
As if mourning their loss.

Advertisements

Identity Crisis

The boy on the bus
Was a scared little man
With his feet on his bags
And his mind on The Plan

The boy on the bus
That I left undisturbed
Though his nervousness made me
Uneasy, perturbed

The boy on the bus
Blew his nose, picked his ear
Buried face in a book
To pretend no one’s near

The boy on the bus
Didn’t flinch, looked away
When the hipster beside me
Screwed his top off to spray

The boy on the bus
Caught in bubbling splash
Of cool mineral water
Dripping seat, cuffs and lash

The boy on the bus
Friendless did not react
Kept his mind on the journey
To survive it intact

The boy on the bus
Struck a chord when I saw
How he treated the paperback
New from a store

The boy on the bus
Had I seen him before
On the flickering screen
Or in newsprint galore

The boy on the bus
That I couldn’t be sure
Was the one some authorities
Were searching for

The boy on the bus
Unremarkable, odd
With the face of a saint
Knelt in fear of his God

Pedestrian parade

Listen, mister
Honk all you like
Leer and stare
Yell whatever catchy
Obscenities you feel
Are needful
As I cross at
My own pace.
After the eight-legged
Ninja monstrosity I just
Dismembered and
Flushed down the drain
Your four-limbed
Feeble annoyance
Poses no challenge.
So go ahead,
Try me.

A little bitty ditty of a journey to the city

A girl got on a train, tra la!
She soon would go insane, tra la!
For service there was none,
And tickets bought for fun.

The girl sat down to wait, tra la!
Hoping she’d not be late, tra la!
But vain were all her hopes,
For Virgin trains are jokes.

The girl was on her knees, tra la!
A bunch of tourists teased, tra la!
Not knowing she could speak
Their lingo, tongue in cheek.

The girl was far too tired, tra la!
So she just sat and smiled, tra la!
And tried to read her book
While Europe cocked a snook.

The girl was now ashamed, tra la!
Of people not so strange, tra la!
She felt she ought to speak;
Too tired, bit her cheek.

The girl wanted her bed, tra la!
To hell with all things red, tra la!
But this was not her night.
The tannoy put her right.

The girl was now pissed off, tra la!
At snotty woman’s cough, tra la!
But trained to be polite,
She kept her mouth shut tight.

The girl got on a train, tra la!
To take her home again, tra la!
She needs a good night’s sleep.
To help her through the week.