An old man studies pigeons on the stoop of the library.
I see him when I go out, and I see him when I come back from my lunch break,
perched, his shoulders hunched as he watches,
his dark eyes shaded by his heavy eyebrows as he stares out at the empty pavement.
The pigeons are now roosting on him, embroidering his cable knit sweater.
He mumbles something, words evaporate into the air before I can decipher,
then he resumes his silence, as if resetting his vow as his flock coos.
No one else notes him, eyes of businessmen in their polished uniforms glance, fret, then hurry down the sidewalk. A mother’s slows down as she worries for the man, craning her neck as he stares out, before resuming her brisk pace, pushing the baby carriage on in fear of waking her child by idling.
We pass by things too often.
We miss so much.
There is an ache in my neck from looking away from the tree changing colors,
or the birds in the sky.
So, I watch him as if he is an exhibit in a museum,
a moment captured for us to muse over,
benign to us the farther we stray from the cave we rose from,
Humanity.
I imagine him as a father, his mind always churning through the silver silence of serenity, staring at his fledged friends as if trying to understand their mechanics,
his eyes are similar to the beady glare of his flock now as he perches longer and longer on the stoop.
I count the hours as the shadows pool in his wrinkles.
The changing sunlight makes his wiry hair glint like steel wool.
I have called him Daedalus, after the old inventor -
His loneliness makes my heart drop,
Icarus.
Daedalus is plagued by their wings.
The feathers burn gold like his boy’s curls
as they fall onto the earth.
His eyes cloud with the calculations.
Daedalus shifts on the stoop, as if asking,
Why did it work for me, but not my boy?
It’s a father’s job to ask questions.
And maybe that is why he has let these birds perch on him,
resting as he journeys far, wandering through the labyrinth he has created.
Maybe this isn’t kind to call this stranger Daedalus.
To designate his fate
with just a whimsical thought
like Zeus.
Maybe he is just lonely and needs friends.
Maybe these friends are comforting him,
taking a break in the skies to ground him
during grave moments, it is a Monday after all.
Maybe this is why we drift,
to not be caught in theories.
We should all be myths,
it would be safer to live like this,
without worrying like you are alone in the world -
or feeling the gravity as you leave my world -
but what would the lesson be in ignoring
an existence?
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This poem was inspired by the cover picture that I found on Pinterest, as well as friends on Instagram that requested the words, “friends” (Julia from How Why and So What) and “serenity” (Caitlyn). If you are interested in having your words in a poem, feel free to follow me on Instagram @enis.st.sparrow . Thank you for reading!
I love how this turned out!