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Well, I think I'll read one
more poem from this book

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than I meant to.

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They're both bird poems.

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The first is one called Fly.

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I have been cruel
to a fat pigeon

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because he would not fly.

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All he wanted was to live
like a friendly old man.

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He had let himself
become a wreck filthy

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and confiding, wild for his food
beating the cat off the garbage

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ignoring his mate perpetually
snotty at the beak,

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smelling, waddling, having to be
carried up the ladder at night

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to content.

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Fly I said throwing
him into the air,

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but he would drop and run
back expecting to be fed.

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I said it again and
again throwing him up

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because he got worse.

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He let himself be
picked up every time

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until I found him in the dovecot
dead of the needless efforts.

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So that is what I am.

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Pondering his eye that could not
conceive that I was a creature

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to run from, I who have always
believed too much in words.

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The other--

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