The pigeon sat awkwardly crushing its tail
its wings dangling like grey canvas sails
It had been hit by a car.
I carried it home in my hands
Everyone stared.
“the rats of the air”
I fed it bread and water
Put it in a large open cardboard box by the window so it could see the sunlight
It sat in its own poop, paralyzed in stink
I cleaned it so carefully in the bathroom sink
It drank so thirstily
And then died, flailing suddenly in fright
Three days later despite
Everything I tried.
What makes it worth it to try to save a life?
Did I just prolong its suffering?
Or did I give it a more peaceful exit?
I cried 
I cried for the pigeon.