pigeon jazz

i don’t remember mum and dad on those dusty yellow summers, but I do remember the soft brass of a wood pigeon’s well fed pink chest

it’s a recollection of stillness that i feel when I hear the sound even now

and conversations drift by the window

and machinery churns underneath

while the pigeon overhead purrs across slate rooftops 

and the time that’s passed in between these two moments is felt only in this coarse skeleton that rises slower