feed the birds

After the age of sixty,

people become familiar

enough with life

that they can just look at it,

and not feel a single micron dragging

them toward action and engagement.

If you’ve spent your whole existence

tossing and turning in your bed,

rushing from coffee cup

to sandwich to escalator

to back room to bed again,

there’s something pleasing

and almost renewing

about flinging crumbs

to a flock of pigeons.

Let someone else work the floor for a while.

All you have to do is

think back on the time

in your childhood

you discovered how deceptively tasty Bailey’s was,

or watched the truly uncinematic nature of

a gasoline explosion.

Now, the cooing and bobbing

going on at your feet,

it’s all part of the reverie, enhancing it -

the grey, brown and speckled heads

bob, peck, bob, scuffle,

like keys on a feathered typewriter or

a distracted assistant taking shorthand,

waiting for your next disastrous thought

while you quietly shake

a handful of old bread.

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