Amongst The Sleepy Pigeons

There is a death in there
and it’s gone to bed—took off its
stale socks and aired its feet
in the sheets, just the bald top of his head
sticking out of there now, his brain.

Beside him, on the bedside table,
a carnival of flies upon a dead rat,
the crazy remains of a man’s mind
as he curses loudly, punches the air,
then goes to sleep on the ground.

This is all because this death is in there
sleeping,
sucking his thumb, getting drunk.

Some family of pigeons
picks at a piece of brown bread.
Four or five of them, maybe,
all standing around poking at this
bread.
The bread is getting pulled back and forth between them
as they poke and pick at it,
the bread looks like a body.

When he wakes up and stretches,
the loosening of his back muscles,
the tendons in his legs, arms and neck,
releases this whole new
swarm of flies, who emerge
like a full-sized man.