friday poetry (2)

Playing Chicken with a Pigeon

Move! Pigeon, move!
Pecking at the asphalt
(What is so intriguing there, anyway?)
Pecking away.
Startled. Stare
at the behemoth bearing down.
Move! Fly!

Meanwhile I'm behind glass
Debating the ethics of my path.
Move, Pigeon!!
Surely the pigeon will move.
They always do.

What if this one is too slow?
Do I want to start my day with a death
on my hands?
On my wheels?
Nano-second thoughts run the gamut.
Move, Pigeon!

What are the ramifications
of unwitting complicity in
avian assisted suicide?
Unwitting?
No, I could turn.
My nano-second thought betrays me.

Surely the pigeon will move.
They always do.
Move, Pigeon!

Move!
What holds you?!
What is so intriguing there, anyway?

Fly! Fly!
Should I turn? Fly!
Surely the pigeon will move.
They always do.
Move! Fly! Move!!

Oh.
Well then.
Good day to you.