Pigeons

Like Skinner's superstitious pigeon we
Repeat strange patterns in the hope of love
Wasting life waiting for eternity
Hopping foot to foot while glancing above
Anxiously this way and that faithfully
In pursuit of the utterly opaque
Pecking each other when we disagree
Worrying lest we might make some mistake

Wise pigeons say we never know until
Someday when the box is opened at last
But as things stand now it looks like we will
Ignore our present to play out our past
Hopping and hoping for bits of birdseed
Watching the feathers fly as pigeons die
Pecking each other in need or in greed
And flapping our clipped wings as life flies by

At night we dream that when the box is gone
A pigeon might transfigure to a swan

+Steven Curtis Lance



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