"My Father's Loft"

My Father's Loft

My father spent his life surrounded by pigeons,
Feathers in his hair, the fine dust of feces silting
His body, sometimes a feather clinging
To his pants, his shirt, a tiny bit of down
Clinging to his cheek, looking like the tiny
Bits of tissue he stuck to his face
After a shaving cut, his drying blood
Holding them fast. My father's life was tied
To the beating of pigeon wings, the soaring
Flight of them in the sky, wheeling
Round and round the center of their lives
Where he stood, whistling to them,
Calling them to him, tying them to the
earth he called home so that they could
Call it home, too. His loft--an old
Tobacco barn--he replaced the rotting
Roof with shingles, stitching his initials
Into the pattern, swearing the birds
Would see it miles away, insist the birds
Winging their way would see his name
And race to him, where he promised rest
After their long flight, wings weary after
Hours of straining, seeking that sheltering
Comfort, golden grains of corn, racing
The darkness to reach the place my father
Had prepared for them, a mansion filled
With rustling wings, a place at last to rest.