put two hundred strangers,
some jetlagged,
whirling in a crowd
out of order,
around tents, hand carts
small dogs and corners;
meander an electric bus
through the middle,
plus bicycles and motrorinos
on all sides.
now pigeons on the ground
in the center of it all
hopping, running,
bobbing their heads, pecking
stretching their wings,
turning their heads.
half cover lightly
with rolling low clouds,
add brisk winds
and you're in the campo packed laughing,
wondering why those
quick dashing pigeons
never get bumped, run over
or stepped on.
some jetlagged,
whirling in a crowd
out of order,
around tents, hand carts
small dogs and corners;
meander an electric bus
through the middle,
plus bicycles and motrorinos
on all sides.
now pigeons on the ground
in the center of it all
hopping, running,
bobbing their heads, pecking
stretching their wings,
turning their heads.
half cover lightly
with rolling low clouds,
add brisk winds
and you're in the campo packed laughing,
wondering why those
quick dashing pigeons
never get bumped, run over
or stepped on.
1 comment:
This poem is a great description, and I love how it gives the reader the sense of the place, making me feel like I'm part of that whirling crowd. It's a great way to add a sense of mystery to where we have found ourselves, and we want to make sure we don't step on those pigeons! I also like your inclusion of the rolling low clouds.
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