To be one of the pigeons in Grand Central—
I thought I’d like nothing more. To go
and come (and go and go) according
to the strict dictates of whim, to do one better
than not caring about not being welcome,
to not have the concept of unwelcomeness.
To care nothing for anything except crumbs
from hotdog buns and black and white cookies,
(I would find such simple dichotomy pleasing)
the occasional French fry.
this freedom, this lightening of burden,
this hollowing of bones, would it not
be sweet? To take flight and eat
of pitless fruit? But—
But. No creature lives that does not crave.
I should not suppose that a pigeon does not
ask at least to be referred to formally,
rock dove, not flying rat.
How arrogant of me, to not realize
that having no concept of cages
does not mean being free of them.
Jared Frank is a graduate student studying public health in New York. As an undergraduate at the University of Michigan, he co-edited Fortnight Literary Press, a student-run lit mag. He has work forthcoming in Gargoyle.