pigeon eyes.

Today, the pigeons are content not to use their wings. They sit in the grass and see the park through sunset-colored eyes that look like the glass beads of my elderly professor's "statement jewelry." I stared at that broach all morning over rainstorm soil coffee. This day clings to itself. When evening comes, it's time for a drink, taken down too quickly like the medicine it is. My life is not a phase I'm going through, although I do bite my own teeth for days on end sometimes, all the way through every "Hey girl hey" conversation. I'm no good at saying things I don't mean, but still worse at saying things I do.