It's not afraid of the oncoming 6 train,
as it perches on the edge of the platform,
simply turning its back, but remaining
as close as feathers while the Rumbler pulls in.
The pigeon doesn't fly away
when the crowds disembark,
filling the wintery hot station,
filing away to their fear, their jobs,
their love, their dreams, their doldrums,
their sorrows, their surprises, their demise.
He or she is a confident Culver,
instinctively searching for food or coupling,
unaware of existence, really, but not a rube,
just unaware of the exits at 86th street.
Doubtless, there is food down here for the bird;
garbage and accidents, cigarette butts,
gum from another decade, dropped pizza.
However, he or she won't last long,
for that pigeon will surely die down here
and be eaten by a rat or decay under a train.