By Ed Doerr

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.