On A Bench In Pigeon Park Poem by William F Dougherty

(For Cornelius Patrick Dougherty)

Piebald pigeons waddle about the bench
The old man takes beneath an elm to hunch
Over bird prints, splintered peanut shells,
Cellophane, and bits of paper. His mind stalls,
Clouded by buffers to the knotting ache
That ramps his limbs. The pigeons strut and peck
At seeds within his shadow, bob and thrum,
Bully a starling away from a crumb.

Fumbling in his faded suit, he fishes out
A rumpled postcard with a scribbled note
A daughter sent, before the family fell,
While the tumor still bloomed. She used to call
Now and then, he thought, and blithely dismiss
The absence stiffening to loneliness
And disregard. The iron public clock
Pulls at the past with an accusing click.

Across the park a querulous wind stirs
Brittle leaves into skittering scales;
A cobra of smoke twists up from a pile
Of charred debris. Under a clamp of chill,
The old man slumps, his chin against his chest;
Vacancy claims his eyes. The postcard falls.
A sparrow braves his shoes to nip a crust.