The Man Who Feeds the Pigeons

The man
who feeds the pigeons
coughs like a soul
fighting
fire

and then he swears loudly
at God

The top of his voice
spelling out
each
word
with pity

He sits in his shop
surrounded by lonely artefacts
carved from brass and
stone

Cherub faces, sad flowers
empty smiles
silent
in dust

I went in once
for lack of else to do
and
he eyed me coldly
rooted
to the chair
embalmed by the funk
of
nicotine lungs

pale
and
infested

Every morning I hear
a rough
clatter
cough
rising from the courtyard

and I nod
knowing
it’s the man who feeds the pigeons