Pigeon for Tea

he works his wool hat with
fingers he has nowhere to wash
the baby is still coughing
that wet haze washes beneath the door—
a constant, brittle chill that finds its way through wood and tar
to wander through rooms once bright,
now barren—
fuel for the fire
twelve days on strike
now thirteen
he bites his lip
Kyrie eleison
and makes the cross
pigeon for tea
the missus not pleased
bony back
rump reduced to flat ham
sour fruit
pigeon for tea
no kisses from the missus

Thanks for checking out my poem.

Did I tell you I wrote a novel? You can also donate some of your hard-earned dollars down below—that’s money to me, for free!

 

Gabriel Muoio

$1.00

 

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s