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.