A lesson for those with wings.

A passenger train grinds slowly by,

abbreviated in its misplaced haste.

Pauses on the river bridge to cry

a chain of smoky, diesel tears.

 

Mourning a pigeon laid to waste

in a weed-choked highway crossing.

Ruffled in its state of unfortunate grace.

Upended by automated fears.

 

Stretched across the river’s foamy tossing,

the train slowly resumes its travels.

Head bowed, though, now -- as if ashamed that stopping

could be construed as some kind of weakness.

 

In an ivy coffin, all unraveled

the pigeon ­-- not caring -- decomposes.

Wings akimbo, flecked with gravel;

eyeless, it watches the breathless

 

Passers-by who hold their noses.

Some pause and turn toward the river,

where tugboats in creeping repose,

nuzzle up against the loads they push.

 

Between the gutters, life delivers

a harsh sermon for those with wings:

that truth is lost on witless passengers

content to drain their ginger ales in a rush.