Letter to the pigeons outside the Chinatown metro station, corner of 7th and H

By Matthew Herskovitz

For Maddie

I found you there, flock,
flicking up and down from the rafters 
and headers of the Walgreens
and down onto the street where you pecked around
for something. I thought you’d peck my feet,
pull my shoelaces and humiliate me
in front of so many strangers.
I thought, when the juniper-blue cadre 
of your finest crowded around
a puddle in the gutter of the crosswalk
and ducked their heads in sipping,
you’d evolved to make it work. 
You carried all your fat, bobbing,
having been fed well by the fruits of the place,
hands of the people. 
I was afraid
a car might come,
and, in your stupefied sipping,
you’d miss it, and its hard
wheels would crush your merry band
into the road because I didn't say something
to warn you.
When I found you, I was waiting for my love,
and I’m sure some of us—between
you and me—have this thing
in common, how we 
turn our heads over our shoulders, 
how we share the waiting 
knowing I’ll know when she’s here.

Matthew Herskovitz is a writer from Baltimore, Maryland. He is a graduate from the University of Maryland, College Park, with plans to pursue an MFA in poetry. His works have been published in New Note Poetry, The Shore, Red Lemon Review, Stylus, and Laurel Moon.