Pigeons in a parking lot

There's a tremendous amount of really good poetry being written at the moment, if you just take the trouble to look for it. This, completely at random, from the following location. It's by someone called Vincent Spada - I'd never heard of him before - nice effort - though I think my picture is a little more upbeat than the poem.

There's little to say 

There's always little to say 

Things aren't what you expect

It's never a pot of gold, 

or ten good turns, 

or anything. Not anything

No gusts of perfect wind 

No moonlight walks 

Forget it. Keep dreaming

This isn't a lie 

This is the truth 

There's just nothing to say

It's only the usual 

in heavy doses 

If that's bad, well, too bad

It's nothing 

The same thing, right there 

See it, and know it, for sure

A junk of a car, 

a supermarket dying, 

and pigeons in the parking lot

That's all 

Maybe almost invisible 

But either way, it doesn't matter