Manhattan Pigeons (Whiskey by Orlo Newbould)

I remember chasing birds. Brooklyn Lager and an old friend, a cousin, I followed him between the parked taxis. His half of a baseball ticket hung from a worn back pocket. I misplaced mine earlier and we couldn't go back to our seats. So we chased Manhattan pigeons with our hats.

Manhattan pigeons. Cleaner than the woman. So I was told. My pastor visited the city years ago and told horror tales of the girls. Don't bother he said. Coals in your lap. It was breezy April and our heart rates were slowed by whiskey. Coals in my lap sounded cozy. Instead my cousin and I dove after pigeons, after all we were both wearing wedding bands.

Half the money gone now, no cock-blocks from the pulpit to tame my nature, I dream of another chance to chase birds. In Manhattan. Wouldn't misplace the ticket stub either. Coffee would be wise too, a warm, wide-eyed pursuit of feathers. No desperation. No coals. A warm blanket of glitter-dotted flesh to whisper me tales of tomorrow.