It's a fine balancing act
I used to live on the 15th floor and see pigeons zipping past high glass towers in midtown west.
I wonder if they ever slow down to catch a glimpse of their fine flying form or their wind-swept hair.
The statues stand upright, proud and pompous as we’ve crafted them.
And yet the pigeons manage to stand above them all,
sweeping over a fine tableau of Central Park, resembling a fine moustache scrawled above Mona Lisa’s precious lips.
We live in harmony in this silly place,
bonded by absurdity that has no end.