Not Under the Bus Bench

You know the one.

that feeling.

The one that

those first hundred birds felt

for the sky

it’s what I could be

to a world like this

watching that

one legged pigeon

hopping around foot crowded bus stations

Yet

in that ache between my ribs

my lungs

know they are trees,

my heart drawn

in the

same oils that stain the clouds

and I can bathe in cottonwood seeds

don’t feed them

they say

so

I gobble up the seeds

silky slippery

so they can’t be caught and stuck

between my teeth

I would rather choke than be consumed

by the likes of you