Pigeons At Dawn Poem by Gert Strydom

People make extraordinary efforts
to catch the essence of life,
to be truly living
and some visit third-rate motel
and hotel rooms
where they undress to ravage each other,
some read, watch television
into the early hours
and some just stay up
always thinking
as if searching for their souls.

I took the steps down
of the old dilapidated building
of which the elevators
were all broken
and it was chilly
with grey concrete under my feet

and the shop at the nearest garage was open
twenty four seven,
where I bought a bread and a half and milk
while the first orange pink glow
was creeping over the eastern horizon

and the world was as if on hold
and still waiting
for the bright sun before awaking,
with lights glowing yellow
in the rows of lamps in the street,
empty from cars and people

and it was a little cold in my shorts
but the doves in the park
at the art museum came down in droves,
landed cooing and bunched around me
pecking up hungry the bits
that I broke from the half loaf.