to deter you the same way they deter pigeons from shitting.
Those metal rods pierce your skin and pierce your pride.
You are a pigeon, they say, you are a winged rat.
The rain is cold. The sun too hot.
Different days but the same problem:
You will not go to the house for "your kind."
You are tired of roosting with the rejects.
No more flocking to someone else's roof.
Remove the spikes and the rats will run back.
But all the rats want is a home, a little home.
Read The Atlantic article that inspired the poem.