PLOP

I suppose I had a good run. I mean, I had been living in NYC for about a decade, and this had never happened to me before.

It began, as such things do, somewhere up there--out of the literal blue, it fell at extreme velocity, until it hit target with a plop and a barely discernible splatter.

A pigeon had pooped in the great above, but it had long flown away by the time its wretched refuse was expelled from the kingdom of avian body, into the atmosphere, a rapidly accelerating gift to the world that became a smear on my arm.

Attempts to remove the greyish-white matter from my forearm were valiant and varied: scraping my arm against a building on West End Avenue, ripping off a piece of a street lamp flyer for a "man with a van," using someone's discarded deli napkin.

The more I tried, the more the excrement became part of my epidermis. To the world, it looked like a small smudge, a pieces of shmutz easily removed, once home, with vanilla-scented anti-bacterial soap. But I knew it was a metaphor for an internal life, externalized and personified.

A bright side to being a pigeon toilet: this is supposed to mean good luck is on the way. I'm looking forward to it. Because otherwise, it is merely literal: a crock of shit.

PLOP

I suppose I had a good run. I mean, I had been living in NYC for about a decade, and this had never happened to me before.

It began, as such things do, somewhere up there--out of the literal blue, it fell at extreme velocity, until it hit target with a plop and a barely discernible splatter.

A pigeon had pooped in the great above, but it had long flown away by the time its wretched refuse was expelled from the kingdom of avian body, into the atmosphere, a rapidly accelerating gift to the world that became a smear on my arm.

Attempts to remove the greyish-white matter from my forearm were valiant and varied: scraping my arm against a building on West End Avenue, ripping off a piece of a street lamp flyer for a "man with a van," using someone's discarded deli napkin.

The more I tried, the more the excrement became part of my epidermis. To the world, it looked like a small smudge, a pieces of shmutz easily removed, once home, with vanilla-scented anti-bacterial soap. But I knew it was a metaphor for an internal life, externalized and personified.

A bright side to being a pigeon toilet: this is supposed to mean good luck is on the way. I'm looking forward to it. Because otherwise, it is merely literal: a crock of shit.