Council’s Edict
J.
K. Murphy
Please don’t feed pigeons in the Square, Council decrees.
A busker plays a London tune within
The beat of pigeons up confining trees.
He places salty chips upon a bin,
Hand to his heart, as it were. They follow suit
And in a pack they fly down as of old.
A covert camera makes a random shoot;
He’ll be moved on; their reasons are twofold:
He feeds the birds but can’t pitch to the crowd.
Look at that forlorn cap beside his feet.
Our sweeper nods at fashion, such as loud
Hat-feathers. Dowdy ones, he sweeps away like sleet.