Another day

Another day,

another bench,

same worn-out pigeons.

One, specifically,

a gray blur with a twitching head,

locked onto a single,

oily French fry.

Yellow, curled,

abandoned by some rushed kid.

The bird pecked,

a quick, determined jab,

like it was solving a problem.

Cars rushed by,

bus brakes hissed,

a siren wailed.

But that pigeon,

it just kept at it,

absorbed,

unfazed.

Its tiny eye,

black bead,

never flickered.

Just the fry,

then a quick gulp,

and the world could burn.

A kind of singular focus,

I almost admired.

Almost.