The floor is wet. Tap, dripping,
dripping. Soap ends are slippery
colour. I sit on the bath's edge and
try to look out the window. Through
the grill the pigeon shrills. I poke
my tongue at his bright eyes
and vermillion feet. The next day
the bird rewards us with
a hall full of feathers, coils
of bird shit and a broken window.
We seal the hole up with cardboard,
sweep the litter into a pile.
Summer still blows in and we stretch out
with the AC in a smaller room.
Pigeon cooes its presence
deep into the night, I paint
its reflection on the corrugated
surface. The next day
the flowers are gone.