I am a Baby Pigeon.

I am a baby pigeon.

My proud parents made our nested home known

with a black and white Pollock painting

beneath.

I am a baby pigeon.

Born into a destiny of destinations,

the orange letters lit our faces

as though we were a family sitting by a camp fire.

The words illuminated

and removed us;

a spotlight and a rock

and I was gone.

I am a baby pigeon.

Train tracks led both ways

and both ways led to death.

The R.S.P.C.A have no R.E.S.P.E.C.T

for me, my family or what we have been through.

This refugee is nothing new.

If my feathers were orange,

green,

or even blue

I would be loved by you.

I am a baby pigeon.

London grey is my colour,

and London indifference is my right.

It matters not that Cher Ami

was a war hero, or that I am a biblical creature

who can recognise my reflection

and could send messages in the time before texts.

I am a baby pigeon.

I wonder if when R.E.M sang “Everybody hurts”

if Michael Stipe was  including little birds.

I am a baby pigeon.

Now fuck off

because I’m only vermin to you anyway.

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