The pigeon on my window-sill
adores a bird of wood
that gazes from this other side
as if she understood.
Brought here from America,
she wears a perky crest
feathers brown with a hint of pink
adorn her lovely breast.
The pigeon on the outer ledge
believes he woos a dove
and cannot comprehend the glass
that keeps him from his love.
If only I could speak with him
of love’s elusive flame
I’d cure his sad obsession with
the bird he cannot claim.
and pecks upon the pane
his doting morse-code plea for sex
like any featherbrain.