If I release pigeons instead of doves,
will anyone know? I could call them rock doves.
I feel like pigeons don’t get a fair shake in life —
called flying rats, injured and thrown down stairwells
by stupid children, maligned and shooed everywhere
they think to roost, close a translucent eyelid,
tuck head under wing, soft as butter. I feel like
if I released beautiful pigeons at a wedding,
it would change everyone’s minds about them,
and the bride and groom would imagine themselves
on top of a sign somewhere — for a 7-Eleven, say,
or maybe an Arby’s — just the two of them, braced
together against cold, wind, and car exhaust,
seen and yet unseen, disregarded by the people
passing by the two of them, just the two of them.