CHICAGOAN PIGEONS – Brooke Nicole Plummer

On the corner of Dearborn and Randolph, I drank a
chai latte while the Chicagoan pigeons stalled in 43 degree weather.

During an Uber ride to hear an Arkansas thrash band,
I watched a cross pendant swing from the rearview mirror
to casualize the expedition of our fingers fondling between lovers’ legs divided.

As I toured the Congress Plaza Hotel, I snuck into the maid’s closet and shoved
a roll of toilet paper into my backpack, as if it actually belonged to the “shadow woman”.

I need all of this to ‘rouse me when life becomes a series of anemic responses.
I need to cruise these coolly, & sensationally like the satellites of Vela feasting star debris.

I need

to be nocturne, to err as raw anomaly,
to become one with you.