Watch out for pigeon poop!
there are pigeons perched upon
a rusted metal cornice of a building,
they are making sport of selections,
far below trudging humans the goal,
receivers of pigeon commented anointment
most birds have a sense of humor, although
they do not know it, it is in their DNA,
placed there as an after thought by
evolution, survival of the most fetished,
a creator’s comical adaptation for humankind,
with ruffled feathers cooing at the cold air,
fat friars coated in grey frocks, observant
their incantations magical mouthing of beaks,
casting watchful beady eyes at a stray cat.
pigeons do not enjoy simple gathering,
they want humans to participate, to feed,
bobbing heads puffed chested, strutting about,
bread crumb pecking white unguent factories,
don’t feed them you idiots, they’ll shit on you.
©2012, Donald Harbour
Donald Harbour Poetry 
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