Pigeons are the final wild birds of the city
Smudged by soot from diesel engines
Waiting for crumbs from someone’s hand
They become scenery on the square
On the square there is a fountain
And pigeons need to quench their thirst
So pea-brains of pigeons contain a fountain too
Every day people who walk past the fountain
Use their bodily surges to sense the spurt of water
But some have gotten tied in knots by their desires
Like birds they peck for breadcrumbs of affection
While looking down, we often see such scenery
But a few, beyond the grouped statues, above the square
Exhibit the constant soaring of a fountain
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