Doves Are Crying Poem by Mark Heathcote

Doves are crying on the forecourt roof
As much displaced as us breathing in fumes
Oh, I wonder why they don't leave, is-it-an-omen.
Why don't they go? Their wings-aren't-broken.

Lord knows they aren't like us financial slaves
Let's obliterate this place, all its masquerades
The freedom of the road doesn't free me
Wherever I travel, still my heart is an absentee.

Oh, forecourt roof to forecourt roof, I cry
When can I take to the sky and fly?
Doves are crying-like-they sometimes do
When-they're-hungry too, ah, ah is this déjà vu?

I recall a roof full of picked Sunday joint bones
How it came as a shock, a dark disturbance
It was like entering a nightmare, a cemetery
Oh, inertia, I deep breathe, dying now quite arbitrarily.

Oh, I cry, I cry - fly with a dove into the sky.
The freedom of the road doesn't free or edify
me, but let's pretend in you I've met a friend
and now fully awake, sing an end for you and me.