Perhaps your guarding
an empty nest,
staking out territory
for your once stillborn
child.
Perhaps you’re pregnant,
tottering on my fence
like a drunken
stuffed big bird.
Perhaps your making
it all up,
angry bird;
if you just stay
still
just a while
your flame
dies
unmatched.
Chasing your absent husband
around the perimeter
of your dreams.
He doesn’t hear
your screams,
except to swoop into your yard.
His weapon:
an unused wrench
Your heart:
a faulty machine
Sag along,
freezing bird,
chirping the saddest song
written by
mother.
Yard Sale of Thoughts 
Aw. That’s one sad bedraggled pigeon.
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Vexed and stressed, but maybe ready for a rebirth. Thanks for commenting.
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I have no love of pigeons. They’re going at my brassica seedlings, little beasties. Excellent poem though.
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Thank you, Misky. Pigeons are misunderstood and I think that’s why I wrote about this one.
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