Chasing Pigeons

I went out into the city
and saw a boy of two or three
chasing pigeons in the street,
his face aglow with anticipation and delight.

And in that moment I was there again,
a boy of two or three
chasing pigeons in the park,
mother standing by
with tolerant appreciation
of what must have seemed a game.

They were always just
a few steps or wing beats away.
Always holding out the promise
of possession and fulfillment.

Sixty years and more have passed, but always
I've been chasing pigeons in various disguises:
women, love, success or wisdom - almost always
just a few steps or wing beats away. Or if possessed,
never what I imagined them to be in my anticipation.

Still I'm chasing pigeons with my brush and pen,
but if these birds I chase are caught they will not be
for me, but for me to give away to boys or girls
of two or three, or seventeen or thirty five.
And through this chase I keep myself alive