9 April 2012
Sitting on a park bench Looking for pigeons to feed, Ignoring the crumpled newspaper That I brought to read.
People rush past my bench No spare time to lend I sit in silence, watching them Watching for a friend.
But none of the people stop, To them I am good as dead. Dead and stale, mouldy and dry Not like my bread.
Only the best bread for my pigeons, Baked fresh every day. Their attention is all I ask in return, All that I ask them to pay.
Behind me the old clock tower Begins its morning chime. My pigeons start to gather: It's feeding time.
With each throw of my arm More friends flock around my feet Their gentle coos and fluttering wings Create a soothing beat.
For a brief moment of time I am happy and complete. Then this feeling is shattered By the sound of advancing feet.
My pigeons scatter and take flight Fear taking over their mind. As they flee I wish I could join them And leave this world behind.
The park fills with people again Still walking with an impatient stride. I wrap up my bread and watch them pass, A lone pedestrian, sat on the side.
Sitting On A Park Bench Looking For Pigeons To Feed • Opuss № I