Even the pigeons can see the puddles That surround the crowds Of the Old Steine But i’m not sure they can see the rain And I do not think they will look at me,
They hop across the swamp-filled curbs, Dipping talons, and washing Their wings as they go, ignorant To the faces that Ache for their homes,
But I do not think They will look upon me; Not in the mirrors That mask the street floors And not during this purgatory Of the bus stop storms.
And yet, I look upon them In hopes they gaze at me But they never will and Nor will they mourn When I am summoned to leave.