FEEDING A PIGEON I MISSED MY BUS

There was this importunate pigeon
Bobbing, weaving, advancing and retreating,
Wobbly legged
and mad round eye.

Your weavings don’t deceive me
Your sideways hoppings
Don’t deceive me
In spite of all
You see in me
A Crumb Conveyor
And damn it
I haven’t any crumbs;
I don’t carry crumbs about with me.

But you bother me
So distracted
So obsessed
So liable to panic
Such a gutter-fluttering
Waddling old character -- You.

There now --
What have I found in the rims of my pocket?
A miscellany of fragments
Crumbs mixed up with them
If you’re lucky.

So OK! They are yours
I fling my arm wide
In a Godlike gesture
And sprinkle them
Across the pavement.

What a flurry!
What a flutter!
Poor undiscerning creature
When surely all there is
Are dust mites?

Watching you
I dwell on the advantages of
being Me.
A superior human
With knowledge and foresight
And dignity
(At least compared to bobbing pigeons.)

Till --
Suddenly . . .
Hi!
STOP!
Dear Lord!
Oh, damn and blast!
Oh Hell . . .
That was my BUS!
It’s passed me by.
I’ve missed it
It’s gone
Damn! Damn!

. . . . . . . . . .

I see a shadow on the wall
Gesticulating, bobbing, hobbling,
Waving . . .
A gutter-fluttering waddling old
Character.
ME!