The Homeless Garden

Careless footsteps pass,
Pass in circles, last.
You are still, in welcome ears
First alone in arms.
Spread free! Aloft a parkbench
Behold! The dusty morn'.
Cloudy reds on dry-gray coins
The fountain wishes to bleed,
Between the mindless chatter
Of goers, doers, leave.
It, by far your closest friend,
Knows that you are stone,
Amidst the human flock
Of walking, talking pigeons.
Feathers clipped all by themselves,
Pecking bread crumbs
Stray. They cannot open wide around
Around their fingers frayed,
So they point at you! oh, paper-thin box
Why behold? the nameless.
Yet, themselves, the box of iron hands
Cuffs the life they think is home
With ev'ry careful step.