The city's only secondarily for people;
first it's for pigeons,
their coorooktoo spiralling into rafters,
their improbable orange eyes,
the way they hide when death comes.
Their leavings on our monuments show
what they think of our generals, our war
dead, our public benefactors, our abstract art.
Feathers of rainbow grit and bone, skittish, them-toed,
they haunt the homely streets
and, after sudden noises, the lumpy air
and, whether or not we notice, us.
-Joanne Merriam
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