Michael D. Amitin

Watching the Pigeons Fuck

Monmartre
We were to meet in the square
Share a drink, two wayward poets
Words a pony ride to the stars

She a mover and shaker on the big top scene
We’d barely ordered our café’s
She hit the
‘Every stroke of bad luck I’ve ever had’

I hung in there cursing my yawns and groans
The story grew legs, tired bones, achy saddles
My eyes drifted

An ephiphany
I saw it
On a balcony across the rue
Bright as the blue day
Two pigeons fucking like
Humping train lanes, pigeon style
A mile a minute
Slipping her the big carrier..
And after awhile

I returned with a ventiloquist’s smile
Didn’t want to miss the bad news crescendo

On a deep blue sea without a raft
She continued the rattle
For minutes or years

She has so much to give the world
So much of me, she says, and then there’s me
And me too

The pigeons fornicated mightily
Beethoven’s 9th
The whole thing came to a roaring climax
Saved by the bill

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