Pigeons in Aristotle Square, unintelligible
letter combos everywhere:
White-and-black gulls swooping,
a white-and-black dog walking down below.
Raven squawks, perched on the eaves above me.
Marble pillars and ledge on my balcony,
marble tile floor, wrought-iron chairs.
Motor scooter like a buzz saw.
Four barges sit in the gulf.
Blue-and-white-striped flag flutters
atop the White Tower.
Me? I'm rested and hungry,
tuning my eyes and ears for receptivity.
What does this mean? What
do I mean by this?
I write because I want to feel alive,
want future readers (maybe only me)
to know that I have lived.
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