A crumpled up newspaper section
And a ball point pen
So perfectly weathered and arranged
As to give the illusion
Of a dead pigeon
Lying on its side
Wing slightly frayed
Pointing west
And slightly upturned
Even with trains passing over it every fifteen minutes or so
It neither shifts nor changes orientation
Two days ago
I had seen an actual dead pigeon
Positioned on its back
With its little claws clutched close to the body
But certainly dead as anything can be
Occupying the centermost area
Of a parking spot
On a small street in Santurce
Facing the Plaza del Mercado
I ate paella and drank a Medalla
In the time it took me to enjoy my meal and pay my check
Two cars had pulled over the bird
Neither one damaging the carcass further
Sometimes the illusion of death
Is just as shocking as the real thing
The shock wears at about the same speed
When you are not connected to the idea of the object
The shock wears at about the same speed
Sometimes
The illusion of death
When flying home in a plane
Makes your throat close
Makes your heart beat faster
Even though life has not gone
Exactly
The way you imagined
There is a peace
When you are not connected to the idea of an object
Like skipping over the most important scene in an onboard movie
But when you are
Connected
And you catch the most important scene
And you well up with tears
And maybe kiss the person next to you
With salty tears on your lips
If that person is your wife
And she has also caught this moment
You know that compassion can be captured
In a moment
And the carcass left behind
Is such an illusion
As to further confuse
The shock wears at about the same speed
Unless you see the collision
Where life slips away
For those of us not used to slaughtering
It is
Sometimes the illusion of death
--
4.28.09
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