Dear Family Chronicle of a Flock of Pigeons,

There are so few pigeon

heroes, or dastards,

and also, I think,

so few affairs, since

each and every character

mates

for life—the history

of pigeons

is a chronicle

without wars—sure, a falcon

grabs a sacrifice now

and again,

but on the whole this

is the tale of how you rose,

a chorus on

a January morning,

wings nearly

white against a bank

of darker cloud, and I

read that chapter,

thankful to see

the fog of my breath

while I waited

on the train, nearly

able in that moment

to love my lifetime the way

a flock of pigeons loves

to be silver in a flash

of sky, dark

then silver.

After the poetry reading

It was an hour before dusk, very hot, and the light of early evening was made especially beautiful but the intensity of the readers he'd heard just minutes before. Ravenswood Avenue, that bland alley of light manufacturing, took on the mantle of temporary beauty.

Dear Dented Box of Cupcakes,

 

Dear Dented Box of Cupcakes,

All the toddlers weep at your disarray, preschoolers  
point out 

the ruin of your frostings, powdered sugar

pools 

like blue sand in your corners, and your devil’s food 
bundles, your Mini-Cooper carloads of lard 
are smeared, smashed,

among the fallen. 

Let this be the worst thing to happen today, 
a slip and an oops, 

some momentary grieving. Let this be 

the worst thing 

some of these witnesses will ever know. But of course 
that’s impossible. There shall be loss 
upon truckload of loss. Someone will die.

Someone will fall 

in love with somebody else. Might as well, 
I tell the children, (as I push them

aside) might as well try

for a smidge of icing.