South Seventh Street is a shooting range
A man smokes a cigarette and looks out of his bedroom window
He takes aim and fires, his air rifle whistles
"I shot the fucking pigeon
I shoot those fucking aerial rats
Im the one shooting those fucking pigeons
Im a harbinger of justice,
pre-post-apocalyptic target practice"
Classic R-n-B quietly plays in my car
I whisperingly sing-a-long, having witnessed the whole thing:
the shooting of the pigeons, the ones he's silently collecting
Cold air & a City Street
Two dead birds