A Bottle of Water

I.

Pigeons quenching thirst in a roadside puddle. You turn to face the sun, partake of too much
shine to be mistaken for wine – pupils flared
with fire like swallows spotting far-flung land.

Salvation is drinking too much heat to be sick. Where locals hide their faces on air-con buses
you conquer the roads on the rickety edge
of an old bicycle.

II.

Pigeons quenching thirst in a roadside puddle.
How glad I am for water
bottled in a secret compartment
of my haversack. On grassy edge,
an old pigeon flops wing-spread as if sun-
tanning, or burdened by too much heat.
(She does not appear to be laying eggs).

Around, her young broods jostle for
life in a puddle. My bottle cap could
serve as water-trough, yet the incoming
bus ploughs down my hopes and theirs
in a wheel-screech, taking a leak
on the road as it throws widespread
its wings of doors at the bus-stop.

III.

Pigeons quenching their thirst in a

roadside puddle. So you turn toward

the sun, partake of too much shine

like wine, spread your heart like birds

of joy, send a prayer for the water bottle

mom's troughed in your haversack.