Fredrick the Pigeon & Why I’m a Student of the “School of Misery”

It’s because I keep pulling the saddest detritus out of the world’s hand,
like this pigeon who doesn’t know he should fly to Orlando; the coffee

shop kids have named him Fredrick; he squinches his head into his shoulder
looking like a millennial huddled beneath the outdoor table, rainbow tattoo

of feathers, iridescent, nonchalant. He’s really an attractive bird, but too young
for me. The band on his leg announces he already has an owner anyway.
Want to read the rest?
Please login.
New to Narrative? sign up.
It's easy and free.