A Word From The Feral Pigeon

prologue: feather

The quill and shaft, the side branches
attached by barbules and hamuli
the barbs together: the vane.
Evolved as insulation structure
or mating markers, considered 
only a secondary purpose: flight.

freedom

Rats of the sky, with wings
why us? Not the lucky farking doves 
-a few shades lighter- who escape 
disdain, logos of lefties world-over.
We're mascots of the displaced, crowded,
overpopulated, but our cooing as beautiful
their excretion just as corrosive.

Meanwhile our carrier cousins
whoring for acceptance, purpose 
or someone else's folly. Our benefactors
benign, theirs make them race and race.

We possess secrets read from the soles of feet
are familiar with the kind and the crazed
know shapes to salve loneliness
accept gifts as meant to be received.

Look at these heavy tulip bulbs, the torsos
we lift into the air. Can you? We guard 
your immobilized heroes
bring them and your concrete piazzas
to life, are smartly unromantic
about the outmoded countryside,
have no need for medals,
our collars, iridescent violet-green
bind us to no master.