An Elegy for a Stinking Pigeon
I jump at a thud against my window, but nobody’s there.
I look into the courtyard and glare, see nothing, until
My sight falls upon the pigeon, dead as a dead pigeon,
The corpse nestled into the leaves to hide from the wind.
That’s the problem with death, turning from a thing into
A body. And now I have to get rid of it, fling the carrion
Over the wall, and try not to look the pigeon, dead
As a dead pigeon, in its flat black eyes.
Gloves and a facemask, I have plenty of those,
So I put on my pigeon-corpse-disposal outfit,
Take a laboured breath, and build a small white tent
Out of kitchen roll and matchsticks. Next, a small vigil,
Last rites are read out, pigeon prayers to pigeon heaven
To help this pigeon out. And I apologise, in advance,
For disturbing such still remains, to refrain from letting
The poor old soul melt away with the rain.
I hope they don’t have to move me like this, I would prefer
Not to die and become some logistical issue.
I hope they don’t chuck me over a wall, retch at my stench.
I will find a tree drenched with shade far away from anybody,
Dig my own grave, and take a bottle of whisky for the way down.
So long for now and don’t try to find me.
Solomon Elliott is a working-class writer based in Newcastle Upon Tyne. His poems have appeared in From the Lighthouse and Cygnet. He has also written articles for The Palatinate and is currently writing his first novel, Fantasy Material.