Today I heard a song in passing--
newly dazed lights doo-wopping,
whiney vibratory strings caught
in throaty cries.
Pausing for station identification
on a new planet.
Incessant preciousness tripping
over the fact of a tiny body.
You were born atop a storefront's
air conditioner, I never saw baby
pigeons in New York City before.
Some people here call them flying
rats, **** em--happy belated birthday.