Pigeons’ Feet
god is a ring size
and fantastic
with red cars and
dirty pigeons and
a man and woman
makes haste outside
handsomely dazzling
the old folks who pretend
to read their maps, a
mustache quivers, a
body somewhere leans
back in
ecstasy in drunkeness
from music from drink
the street shakes
the ghostworld and
we forget, casual-like,
texting in hushed rooms
that an orgasm
can fade
beneath pigeons’ feet
