Pigeons

feathers

stuck to the underside of tar, 

wings separated, useless...

You could peel them off the pavement and paste them back together,

stick them to your arms 

and fly too close to the sun - 

do what Icarus did.

this desire to fly that we harbor,

the one that drove Icarus higher and higher, 

our innate need to defy gravity 

that the Wright brothers semi-conquered,

that caused Neil Armstrong to stand on the moon 

(despite what those conspiracy theorists would have us believe), 

it comes from a memory, our spirit's memory.

sometimes I fly in my sleep. 

i have been told not everyone can fly. 

i need a running start or i land in a swamp,

my mind battling the constraints

of my corporeal self

rooting us to the earth. 

if I am already in water when my flying self awakens, 

i usually can't find my way out;

luckily I can always touch the reeds with my feet,

so I never drown.

have you ever noticed, in New York City,

that pigeons rarely succumb to yellow cabs?