Through substantial feedback and superlative wisdoms given at the Poetry-Free-For-All at everypoet.org, I have turned my previous poem into my best work yet.

Careless footsteps pass, lasting
in circles sneering rich,
to swat the homeless, selfish
statues with no design or end,
defenseless to their fault.
The perishing parkbench in morning dust
waits for our forgiveness, for naked
coins through dry-gray rust, the wishing
fountain beating daylight water,
between the mindless chatter of coming,
doing, going, leaving.
When stone, by far your closest friend,
stands you more than the human flock
of walking, talking pigeons, you can
hear their feathers clipped, all by themselves,
pecking pennies on the ground.
Around, around, they cannot open wide,
they cannot open
wide, their fingers sore, pointing at
cardboard skin and bones, calling you
nameless.
But you ignore their iron hands,
cuffing the life they think is free,
the life you know is still,
with every step, insecure,
carefully returning home.

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