Today, I went for a walk


And thought about pigeons.

I like pigeons.

They’re so pretty.
Especially their necks, which all have reflective feathers


That turn different colors in the light.
Like each bird is its own private disco.

Plus, pigeons don’t care.

About anything.


(except food, themselves,

And maybe that cute pigeon from two blocks away.)
Look at ‘em,



Roosting on phone lines and buildings

Like they own the place.


Sauntering in front of cars,
Staring death in the face so nonchalantly.

They eat what they want,

When they want,


And crap wherever they please.

That pigeon doesn’t care about your car’s fresh paint job.



Other people like pigeons too,



Or at least how they live

(even if they don’t know or care to admit it.)

I saw a yellow car

Parked by Whole Foods,



With a bumper sticker that said “Question Authority,”
And I thought that whoever owned it

Must’ve questioned the authority of


Their car-window repairman

Because the passenger side window was gone
And replaced with plastic.







I remembered that pigeons were





Covered with lethal diseases and that




People called them “rats with wings,”

And that they ate street popcorn- old-lady leavings.





People used to call them doves.


I used to order off the kids’ menus





And get free candy







Just by going to the bank.

Those times are gone, and pigeons still don’t care.


I wouldn’t mind getting a lollipop




That’s a little stale


And smells of dust and money,







But I can admire the pigeon discos,




And that’s just as good.