he’s smiling now.
he’s feeding the pigeons.
they purr and coo,
he talks to himself,
his beautiful unselfconcious version
of senior turrets.

he looks at me,
says something that
for the life of me,
i can’t understand.

but he feeds pigeons, and
i understand that.
i feed them too
ever since that sign came up.

there, by the leaves and broken glass,
by the broken mural,
by the creeping sounds of gentrification,
we both drink our coffee,
unable to converse,
but admiring the day
and each other.

and the pigeons,
god’s often maligned,
but beautiful scourges
on this ever changing city,
on this home i see being taken
away, sign by sign,
bench by bench,
place by place.