Two Pigeons
by Derek Godin
The are two pigeons perched on a steel archway.
They are dreaming of a freshly-swept plaza
littered with islands of old fries and small
continents of stale churro crumbs. A
radio programmed by no one, plays on
for no one, at least until the cobwebs of wiring
meet a winter they can't withstand.
This used to be a train station, up until the
local wildlife had its say, redecorating it
with claw marks, broken branches, and the blood
of prey. This is not a profound image, only a
noticeable one, the evidence of beasts occupying
what once might have been an urban stronghold,
a fortress with revolving doors.
Nor their awkward position nor the modest
evening bustle of ground dwellers nor their
own shit crusting their perch would get in
the way of an afternoon's napping. The hum from
the corner just about sounds like "Breakfast in America,"
but all slowed down, words missing, sax lines glitching
in a way the birds and beavers and bears don't mind.
This is our lasting thumbprint: system failures and
short circuits, sophisticated wind-up toys playing
tomorrow's hits. What memories will these waves
score when the husk of the world sits unmoving like
an empty mall? Robins and squirrels will remember
the sounds of us, the reverberations of our junk pile,
ringing hollow against girders and old glass;
We are fated to be remembered but not missed,
not a meaningful image but one that stuck around
long enough to burn into the surface. We don't
play the long game for ourselves; we play it for
those two pigeons, nuzzling on their own down,
out of sight, being lulled to sleep by the echoes
of what we made invisible on purpose.
