Experiment for Homing Pigeons

A few confused sketches of tomorrow’s disaster
is all we got: brief dark shadow of a chainsaw
followed by a General’s stumped toe as it drifts
likely as a bloody cloud of massacre (the best,
most regal course) over a couple lousy matches
of smoke. But it’s a long way (this disaster?)
from where we are now in the checkout line,
only wearing a pair of suspenders while bearing
a tuba, dropping an egg, sniffing a doughnut.
And that’s how I feel: turning to a fine powder,
hunched over in the cabinet of time, collecting
a fine coat of dust. Like a useless medicine,
whose only boon fills my head with the passing
chatter of pushcarts, one which just happens to be
(quite absurdly) spilling over with all the cigarette butts
I’ve ever coolly dropped off a Brooklyn rooftop
in a cooing type of isolation. As patient as a child
or a worm beneath a rock. And with my hand
reaching out, just waiting for these pigeons to talk.