pigeon on a parapet

the pigeon stood still
staring with cocked eye on the rummaging crowd
digging for bodies neath the rambling ballast
digging for sounds or a grasping hand
digging for a twitch or a breath straining for air
digging for trinkets from a home no more
for neighbors whose voice is silence in the night

it peered past the night-fire watching
catching strangers foraging for life squirming
neath the crumbled brick, the shattered glass, the kitchen
no longer warm, the abode hut, the residence lost
to the madness of theophonic might

pacing the parapet as if on guard above a treasure
curious and disturbed, it searched for children
that chased it, for the old who fed it, for the bench
that perched it in the daylight before
death dwelt everywhere, wailing in the night

it longed to move on, tale flight but how
when destruction wails against the buildings' brow
when what shapes fam'ly sits weeping aloud
searching for their dead with revenge for blood
searching for shards of bread or manna precious
like honey from the rock...when a blast tears
its parapet apart, turning it white
like a dove in fright