Bill Phillips

The bench barely stands
covered in patches of peeling
paint and splattered
snowballs.

Parts of the park
are littered, with little leaves
in between crushed cans
and empty bags that people leave.

Stale it feels tough and dry,
I hold the bread at my side.
I sit by where I see birds.

Black coats coated with green
but also loaded with purple.
Feathers afloat, pigeons strut
like angry pimps.

Pushing and shoving.
They pick at each other,
repeatedly pecking.

Only using wings
for fighting,
never for flying,
struggling for
crumbs.