valentine

It was a Tuesday, and the man saw a pigeon.

A pigeon was flying around over his head.

He kept track of its travel by following it with his finger,

tracing the trail it left,

etching its marks in the sky

so the pigeon’s movements would be saved in the clouds

in case another bird wanted to follow the map he drew.

He was the only one who saw the pigeon,

standing outside the liquor store

next to the trashcan on the corner—

everyone else saw him pointing at an empty sky

a calm smile on his face,

soaking in the sun.

They didn’t see the pigeon,

they just saw him stare and stare and stare

(it was safe to stare at the sky again,

the eclipse was over, he wouldn’t hurt his eyes this time)

and stare and stare and stare,

his arm straight and finger outstretched

standing next to the traschan

covered in stickers from vape boxes

and wrappers from cig packs and nips.

(it was daytime, so the raccoons wouldn’t feast,

and the rats stayed lower to the ground.)

Oh, the pigeon!

Oh, the majestic and wonderful pigeon he saw!

He was the only one to see it,

but maybe that’s better—

the pigeon was flying for only him to see,

it trusted him to make the map well

and hold the map close

because no one else would think it was as special as he did.