Commute by Joel Scarfe

Early enough to hear the light
whispering like a lover to the dawn
I cross the street, evading Messalina’s grip,
and find the pavement is already sick
with pigeons, going at each other
over scraps of bread
scattered at the feet of Christ (possibly)
who looks as though he hasn’t slept
since all that Gethsemane business.
And holding, like a sheriff’s badge
his can of Special Brew, he stumbles
away, begging the air’s forgiveness.
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