The Inkspots

The thing about the dove was how he cried in my pocket and stuck his nose out just enough to breathe some air and get some snow in his eye and he would have snuggled in but I was afraid and brought him into the house so he could shit on the New York Times, still I had to kiss him after a minute, I put my lips to his beak and he knew what he was doing, he stretched his neck and touched me with his open mouth, lifting his wings a little and readjusting his legs, loving his own prettiness, and I just sang from one of my stupid songs from one of my vile decades, the way I do, I have to admit it was something from trains. I knew he’d like that, resting in the coal car, slightly dusted with mountain snow, somewhere near Altoona, the horseshoe curve he knew so well, his own moan matching the train’s, a radio playing the Inkspots, the engineer roaring.