The Bohemian Experiment

I’ve never spit on a pigeon, or
even tried to kick one, except as
a kid who didn’t know better, but as
an adult I’ve realized
knowing better doesn’t always mean
doing better.
I’ve gone so far as to bring the spit up,
gathered in the front of my mouth,
ready to launch it at what are often called
winged-rats, mangy, beady-eyed, foul
little creatures, seemingly useless, but as I’m about to
let fly, a feeling intercedes, a moral-tugging, which seems
to say, yes, you could spit on
this totally unnecessary little bird, and
nobody would care, but it would
demean the essence of whatever it is we call
life, which is wonderful enough to
produce things that could surely be
done without, but nonetheless aren’t.
This causes my spittle to sail wide of the mark, where
a handful of pigeons fight over the right
to peck at it