pigeon jazz

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

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




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