Dialogue

He tipped his felt hat  at the pigeons
And grinned gap-toothed as they one
By one waved back—
The first grey-lined scratched greetings in the 
Dried up droppings in the sand

The next plumb-lined its head in time to inner jangle

And the last one coughed and stuttered, croaked hello.

He ducked his scarred brow at the pigeons 
And moaned, lonely, as they one 
By one knocked off—
The first, one shoulder first then 
Winged it straight to needled sky.

The next, a running start, a missed approach
A clipped bench pass and gone.

And now the last, he stood and strutted,
Tut-tut-tutted round the rusting crumpled broken heap of man.