PIGEONS ARE THE ALCOHOLICS OF THE BIRD WORLD.

Jim was watching
as I fumbled with an orange.
"This might sound strange,"
he said, "But you remind me of a pigeon."
I'd recently cut my fingernails
so was having to peel it with my teeth.
The pith tasted disgusting.
Juice ran down my chin.

"When did you last have a shower?,"
Jim asked. I couldn't remember.
"Friday, I think," I lied. "No wonder
you look like a tramp
and smell like a pigeon."
I threw what remained of my orange at him
and got a can of cider out of my bag.
"That's just the sort of thing
a pigeon would do," said Jim.

He snatched the cider out of my hand
and threw it up into the top of a tree.
He laughed as I climbed up to retrieve it.
As I sat in the branches, drinking,
I saw him take out some ginger nuts,
crush them up and throw them on the ground.
A flock of pigeons flew down
and started pecking at the crumbs.

"Ha ha! Look! They're just like you!
You're one of them! I always said
that pigeons are the alcoholics
of the bird world!"

I couldn't be bothered to argue
so looked at the sky for a while.
Slow moving clouds that changed shape as they drifted,
a couple of planes in what seemed like
a near miss from a distance.
There were no birds.
I fell asleep

and dreamed about French cuisine.