Beside the fractious traffic,
I march with office-pleasing gait,
eyes curtained by routine duties
that hustle my thoughts down corridors of grey.
*
Proceeding at speed below tall wires
that sag from the weight of many pigeons,
I fail to notice their common gawk,
beaks turning as one
to draw a hungry line in the sky
from perch to curb across the busy street
to lock on a red bag of broken bread,
gift of a grandmother in a woolen cape.
*
Afraid of frowns from managers,
I miss the flock’s initial swoop,
a curve like the well of a serving bowl
that lilts up higher to spoon its length
and reach the top of median’s pole.
*
The final phase in two-part flight
demands a steeper drop from middle mast
to scattered morsels that stop
in an arc at the woman’s feet.
*
Because I stride beyond the scene,
I never learn what motivates
the pigeons’ dives in calligraphic loops,
the cursive strokes that spell, “Sustain our need!”
*
But I want to understand how Desire
shapes direction and contour of flight
in geometric cadence from poles to earth,
and welcomes both punctual and late
to arrival’s abiding feast.
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