(Only A) Poor Pigeon (Poetry)

Blood and feathers puddled on the road
crushed into faux cobbles — the bright badge
of death by motorcar — some small accident
caused by inattention or slow reflexes
maybe the pigeon and the driver equally to blame.

Little recognisable except the beak
and in amongst the spread of gore
two red-raw scaley feet
grasping at the air. Was there a squawk before
that tyre ran over him (or her) and flattened all?

The death was fresh — there must have been some witnesses
shoppers on the pavement just a yard away who saw
what happened — the small horror of the incident
and maybe shuddered, turned their children’s heads away.
Or maybe not — it’s hard to judge how other people think
                                                                        or react today.

I looked and winced and thought of feathers stuck in tread
and wondered if the driver even knew they’d killed
a living thing who’d probably been pecking crumbs ...
Not smart, these feral pigeons wandering among
pedestrians and traffic. A tragically dumb ending — sad
                                                                        this bloody waste.

Yet, looking round, not much sign of pity evident
indifference spread its mask on every barely-glancing face.
Is it considered too absurd to grieve, even in passing
the fate of one jaywalking hapless bird?