I love to watch the pigeon bob her head,
The sun refracting off her neck to shine
In purple-free, deep colors rich as wine.
She stops to fill her breast with my white bread
I broke to bring her here to keep her fed
So she can make a milk that is divine
That only in her breast can she refine
And feed to those who languish in her bed.
She stands upon the concrete corner, cool
And cautious, ready any time to fly --
She always wonders if this is a trick.
She bobs her head. Is she a feathered fool?
And yet, her stomach's full, she can't deny--
And so if there's a blow, she hopes its quick.