photograph by robert doisneau.
The pigeons strut on Gorbals Street
like cowboys with rickets,
tubercular and spitting in the gutter
red-eyed and keeling
to one side.
They are, none of them, fast
on the draw. They wade through phlegm
and splintered baby rattles.
Downtown Laredo on a Saturday night.
They will kill you with
cantagion if you get close enough.
They eke out a pension
of stale bread, cigarette stubs and whiskey
sours. Hard cheese and
scraps of news on tumbleweed chip wrappers.
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