yesterday, at the end of his shift, feet aching, hands unfeeling from hot water
a crack, loud as a gunshot
roused him from sonambulance and he saw
the pigeon
dazed bleeding perfectly still.
he turned off the water
knelt in silence
desperate until its trembling breath
gave evidence
-what should i do-
he texted me
-i called for help
-but i’m not done the dishes are not done my tasks
-and i don’t want to frighten it any more-
-Listen-
i say to him.
-the labor will be there
-the dishes the mopping the endless concession
-the tasks will always be there
but this work, the work of mercy
tending the fallen and the helpless
cupping your hands around their ribcage to
feel the stuttering life within
this
is your real work
your reason for being
this care is the purpose i whispered in your ear
before you knew words.
even if the only one you manage to save is just
a pigeon
who has lost its fight to
leave a room it never meant to enter.
