A pigeon,

Feathers matted

And beak burrowing into nothingness,

Shallow breath laboring to sustain the dead-weight body.

Already giving up.


A cripple.

Snatching his hand away from pity,

Licking what does not sting.

A harrowing refusal.


On the streetside,


Crouching for a photo

Because it feels like capturing life

And I think I enjoy that.

Too afraid to touch it,

Lest I get sick;

But God has a plan for you, right?