Mind Off

I'm not long for this world, says the pigeon.

Tell me about it, says Saint Roley. In poetry, if you like.

The pigeon has never considered this option.

Is he made of cement? asks the pigeon.

Terence? Yes, says Saint Roley.

That explains it, says the pigeon. Help me out of this fountain.

Saint Roley helps the crushed pigeon from the blood red water.

Flat on his back on the pavement, the crushed pigeon turns up his toes.

He asked me.... if I knew a parrot, whispers the pigeon.

And did you? asks Saint Roley. Or was that the first line of your poem? Not much rhymes with parrot.

Carrot, says the pigeon.

His broken wing flutters.

Saint Roley nods sagely.

My brother drowned, says Saint Roley. And I was not with him.

Lucky you, says the pigeon.

Not my point, says Saint Roley. If you are dying, I'll stay with you until it's over.

If it will make you feel better, says the pigeon.

It's supposed to make you feel better, says Saint Roley. Dying is good news and bad news.

Ca-cha! Well, that does surprise me, coughs the pigeon.

It surprised me, says Saint Roley.  Anyway what about the parrot?

H-u-u-u-h!. The pigeon expires.

I hope that helped, says Saint Roley.

Another pigeon stops by.

I couldn't help overhearing, says the pigeon. Are you a poet?

Not really, says Saint Roley.

Only I heard you rhyme parrot with carrot.

That was him, says Saint Roley. I dared not suggest it myself.

Still, it took his mind off the end, says the pigeon.

It did, says Saint Roley