The Hawk and the Pigeon

"That's just what happens,"
the pigeon stunk
spitting out just what he'd thunk
and not considering more
than brutal truths, dehumanized
'bout death and danger impending:
"everybody decays"

"no, no, no
we must preserve what's become of us"

"and just what is that?
our self-preservation?"

"I've reservations on that proclamation:
to lay waste to honest truths
spoken centuries
would be a sin on centuries,
unacceptable"

"Un Ak Ceptabull!??"
the pigeon was simply sputtering
struggling to form words
which he knew for sure existed.
(In a twisted fashion he resembled
A trembling Lincoln in the pre-beard days,
Hazily reciting crappy campaign promises
without emphasis.
without Umlaut.
But that beard,
it gave attention where it was due:
the chin.
The site of moral origin.)

The hawk,
reasoning with our dear columbiform,
"Palumbo, Palomitas."
He stumbled finding words to say something other than
"Raptor that I am, I ingest only hate."
This was not a well received comment
and the taste it left was not unlike
a cornbread without baking soda
unleavened and chalky from
an impenetrable memory
of clear brothed chicken chili,
made by an immaculate alcoholic
red head mother of a man
loved by doves
but shit upon by pigeons.
And in living a less than perfect life
mum and da'
had finally fucked someone other than themselves.
Baby boys and girls bear in mind
Don't leave the angry past behind.

And the Accipiter, the raptor,
intercepting the transmission from heart and lung
received unto himself a new kind of healing
and forgetting about the old
he flexed and flew further from his initial reality
to the space inhabited by
who no longer can exist
and will not in our world remain.

"There comes a time" he exhaled (the pigeon he did)
"When a dove and a pigeon ain't no different at all.

"and that time is now"

PDM