What the Pigeon Didn't Know

The pigeon kept pecking at foil,

this small bent scrap on concrete.

Missed every time. Kept the toil

going—head jerk, miss, repeat.

A kid laughed. I stood and watched

like it meant something, this small

stupid thing that couldn't be botched

because it didn't know at all

how to fail properly, how to

feel the weight of trying and losing.

The bird just kept going through,

missing, trying, not choosing.

The kid got bored and left.

The bird forgot the foil.

I stood there, feeling bereft—

like I'd abandoned the toil.

Like I'd seen something honest,

something that didn't negotiate,

didn't know it was dishonest,

just kept going, kept the gate

open between trying and giving up,

and I realized I'd closed mine years ago,

made some deal, some cup

of reasonable knowing.

And the pigeon was still there,

just pecking at nothing,

which somehow felt like prayer.