Grand Station

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Grand Station

March 26, 2008

Pigeons pick mites from wings,
perch on rivets, shelter of steel,
provide a warm animal smell,
and the shadow of the bridge
and the gurgling of their throats
makes me feel, just for one moment, I’m home
in the barn, before it burned down.
But I’m not; I’m an urban girl now.
I see bottlecaps bent back
and rusted; old beer glass, clouded and green —
this is the jade of a jaded city.
Thistle, its blooms so soft, so rough.
From the dust on the grass I know
I am home.

by Colleen McKee

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