Pigeon

I find a shady quiet place
in Manuka to drink my
coffee and smoke a
cigarette.

To my left a pigeon
lies dead under a tree,
only the breeze, a
handful of ants and
a lone fly disturb its
still smooth feathers.

I wonder if the other
pigeons miss it,
or if it’s just one less
competitor for the scraps.

One pigeon flies down,
struts around and tries
to fuck it. Once, twice.

Even in death,
some things
never change.

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