Pigeonhood

It was a pigeonhood of the unfortunates
Flocked together, in secondhand feathers
By a bottle shop
Knowing the cost of being free, and
Making beady eyes at me
Across the car park
What else could i say?
I don’t know
If you’re friend
Or if I’m foe
Between the beautiful and the moral
As the eucalypt and the camphor laurel
And as I pick my way through the dying leaves
I drop a note on the periphery of the conversation
And it reads, well, it reads just tn:
I don’t know
If you’re friend
Or if I’m foe