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pigeon-man-rachel-chatham

Sun.
Aggressive glare
shadows describing the buildings

Who loomed above, around the Bench
where an unremarkable man worried
and stared at the pavement

It was too bright
He did not raise his head

The birds were loud with their wings

They landed, and took things.

Crumbs.

A sandwich that he forgot to eat.

His hands chewed it.

He worried and mangled it.

Birds landed
Ate the crumbs.

He wrung it out like
a wet rag he might place
at the forehead
to calm the worries

He worried into his sandwich
and looked awkward sitting
the bench got dirty
crumbs and bits of meat,
veggie shrapnel,
droplets of the sauce,
pieces of cheese,

the crumbs had their way with his lap
and the bench
and the pavement

the cold cold birds
munched them down
no empathy
no evil

the man worried harder
because of how ominous the birds seemed.

Before long the sandwich vanished completely
carried off by a thousand eager, ominous
stomachs.

Then he wrung his hands with worry
there on the bench
so long that seasons passed,
the children of the first birds
fed their own children now

They gathered pieces of him that fell away
while he meticulously erased himself

Worrying on the bench.

Nobody knew him, nobody investigated.

Birds flew away with the evidence.

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