A Pigeon In The City

Scott Sharpe

The eggs appear through a drip line,

watery and saltless;

sausage tastes like chemo:

metallic spice on a plastic tray.

Weakness is sunlight

ever present during the day

until the pulled curtains

signal closed-eyed demands

for rest. The dent in the bed

shallows my thoughts

of escape,

pain,

life to come.

The sun rises each morning.

The nurse pulls the curtains

and I look at the New York skyline

vibrant in its decay

lonely in its laughter

content in its despair.

Acid drips into my veins,

and I ache to be one with New York again.

A pigeon lands on the ledge

tired from his travels,

looks at himself in the mirror glass

and flies toward Ellis Island.

Even as my body breaks

and the hospital numbs my senses,

my mind wanders,

remembers and longs—for motion,

for meaning, for something more

than survival. And sometimes,

a tired pigeon flies toward Ellis Island,

glimpses fragile hope,

something within us that might still survive.