Crossing Paths
An old man
passes me
on the street—
shuffling gait,
face twisted
into a scowl,
winter hat
askew on
his head
and a cigarette
dangling from
his mouth.
He goes one way
and I another—
two bodies
sharing the same
oxygen space
with the smell
of tobacco
lingering in
the air.
He moves on
toward his
destination,
unaware that I
will use him
as the subject
of this story—
a poem with no
real ending,
since I don’t know
where the
old man went,
or if he made it
safely there.
Morning Flight Path
Three gray-white pigeons
flap their wings
as they dart into
a canopy of trees
outside a nursing home.
Their action reminds
the residents inside
that flight is attainable,
despite fragile bones
and defective hearts.
Yes, the senior citizens
can fly,
at least vicariously,
as long as they can
peer out their grimy windows
and suspend time,
while watching the pigeons
scudding across
the cerulean sky.
Aloft
A line of black birds perched
on a faded red billboard
overlooking Interstate-81
in downtown Syracuse—
feathered sentries
making aerial observations
of life thrumming below.
