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LEO He was a flat liner most of his life.Who oiled the hinges of his pigeon coop When the chimney belched a charcoal mist Atop his roof in Bensonhurst… He opened the shaky wire gate When he heard them coo in the lost hours of August nights, Before the sparrows chirped the brown predawn to grey… He gobble walked to the closest store on the avenue That sold wild birdseed, And kept it sealed in the shadows of his fig tree yard As if the rollers could detect The pencil yellowed slats of food kept fresh From those that bloated wormy brown On the steps of slated veiny rocks of backyard steps Fired up in the merciless spoilage of July… I never really got to know him; Colored like the gray plaid shirts he wore by late October Disappearing in and out, and back again, From the basement of his house Where he scraped the curls of cellar paint And tapped the pigeon coops securely, After winter had its way with wood and rusting nails… I think he always wished to be as free As the puffed chest birds he kept as pets; To wing in figure eights, While never losing sight of them or Bensonhurst.
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