After I’m dead, commission a statue
to extol my life’s achievements:
don’t bother demanding purest marble,
only to have a family of pigeons roost
in the crook of my arm, its collective shit
staining my back & encrusting my feet.
The best I could hope for: a jogger,
winded from brisk air pricking her lungs,
uses my pedestal as a seat, casting a glance
at the stoic face looming above her
before shrugging & rolling her eyes,
huffing into the night,
They’ll build these things
of anybody nowadays.