Blue-decked patrolmen
Beat the general area
Like a pulp, making way
For the citizens with
Their moccasins and talk;
The pigeons squawk on by
Leaving their mark upon
My heal, among other places,
And just generally making a
Nuisance of themselves;
Traffic drones by
Exhausting their fumes just
As readily as the pigeons do,
And making sure it is known
That no nonsense will be tolerated;
But the people,
Oh the people,
Making their way in herds,
Nearly like cattle, though
Not with as much cajolery;
All these meet my eye,
Alert my senses and make
Things, at times, seem
More alive than usual, yet
It's never nearly enough
April 23, 1997
