The Pigeon

God is the whick-whick-whack-whack-whock of gray wings cut so short his elbows knock like a high-test motor on low-test gas— can they really lift his plump, silky ass? He’s the converse of the case from design, the fake Rolex, the Mississippi line, and if the thing has the shape of the hand I almost feel like I’ve worked with the man, a good guy, if you didn’t let him near your code. Who’s really born an engineer? Your pinky’d ought to have a Philips head, and balance argues for the quadruped; and yet he flies, this pig, a miracle, a joke, a love note to the cynical.