(For Cornelius Patrick Dougherty) <br /> <br />Piebald pigeons waddle about the bench <br />The old man takes beneath an elm to hunch <br />Over bird prints, splintered peanut shells, <br />Cellophane, and bits of paper. His mind stalls, <br />Clouded by buffers to the knotting ache <br />That ramps his limbs. The pigeons strut and peck <br />At seeds within his shadow, bob and thrum, <br />Bully a starling away from a crumb. <br /> <br />Fumbling in his faded suit, he fishes out <br />A rumpled postcard with a scribbled note <br />A daughter sent, before the family fell, <br />While the tumor still bloomed. She used to call <br />Now and then, he thought, and blithely dismiss <br />The absence stiffening to loneliness <br />And disregard. The iron public clock <br />Pulls at the past with an accusing click. <br /> <br />Across the park a querulous wind stirs <br />Brittle leaves into skittering scales; <br />A cobra of smoke twists up from a pile <br />Of charred debris. Under a clamp of chill, <br />The old man slumps, his chin against his chest; <br />Vacancy claims his eyes. The postcard falls. <br />A sparrow braves his shoes to nip a crust.<br /><br />William F Dougherty<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/on-a-bench-in-pigeon-park/
