Edward Butscher | Pigeons
At my father’s wake, he slumped alone in the rear and played with himself, cave grin bearing witness to the betrayal of our shared laughter, and soon he was also dead, his wife dancing in a thin nightgown on the griddle of a snow-ribbed street, while black attendants handled him gently into an ambulance, dawn horizon bleak as a tossed purse, pigeons ascending like tattered angels from my mouth.
glassworks 19