They seem a little molecule of calm
in a charged field of gray clicking,
this raggedy couple holding hands
while tossing handfuls of pretzel bits
like ticker tape into converging coveys
on Broadway & 43rd. Doesn’t she know
they have the worst Glycemic Index
of any snack food, even pork rinds?
And he’s as oblivious to the people
breezing by on foot & bike & skate
& the nuclear news looming in neon
overhead as the pigeons to the havoc
those morsels wreak on waistlines.
But they’re content in their selfabsorbed
way, & when I pivot
my head I cannot see anybody else
offering the promise of sustenance,
so I waddle over to them, start pecking.
—from Rattle #28, Winter 2007