something about a little street and pigeons

past the road crossed by

pigeons driven by fear

of hurrying commuters

or hunger for fast food

bags

is the last shop



It's forever open door sentried

by wine soaked owner

unsteady on the

edge



pavement and narrow

road bottlenecks so

that with some relief

customers hurry by



Yet. So like the

books he sells

there is no world

until the page is

turned



that door frames

a world of change

that a simple word

unlocks



instead people curse

the pigeons

and worry

about clocks

shouting

departure times