Progenitors Of Pigeons... Poem by saranyan bee

Afternoon is genuine,
pace of it’s dullness
stays like the shroud
anchor to anchor,
gray upon the sea
forlorn and smoke-like.

I wish I could be at the gate
when the noon transforms -
for there will be pigeons,
feeders, sellers of the feed,
other sellers
sellers of other things.

I wish to see those doves
loose into the darkness of the sunset -
witnesses to the opulence
of the tower, of the wakeful nights
by the iridescent chandeliers,
birds of tales of love people make.

I am not sure if the Indian fantails
who’d made their home
the incinerated windows,
are alive and well to this day,
we know their progenitors survived
the long predatory voyage to San Diego.

I am like their progenitor
content here at the deck;
when the ship berths a girl child
holds my hand as in dreams
in her game of hide and seek
her smile familiar, transient
like the night melting into the pier.


Saranyan BV (c) July 2011