“It’s okay, pigeon.  I love you!”

            The pigeon teeters up the stone pathway in the park.  He is missing a foot, and several toes on the remaining one.  His wings cleave to his body like heavy things.  He is coated in oil, cooking half his feathers black.  When he opens his mouth, only an intemperate bird wheeze rattles out.

            “Nobody else loves you!”

            The man staggers behind the pigeon on the pathway, giving the bird room.  He half-uses a crutch under one arm, and over the other is slung a plastic bag of worldly possessions.  His limbs dangle from his body like relinquished things.  He is steeped in grease, carrying his odor like a real live aura.  When he opens his mouth, a scratchy bellow rings.

            “Nobody else loves you, pigeon, but I do!”