Hmm, if Poe had written a smidgen
on an extraordinary pigeon,
and described its tapping on his pane
with intent to drive that man insane,
would his poem still be so well known
if a pigeon had stopped by Poe’s home?
There’s praise enough for the white-winged dove,
thought holy and a symbol of love.
What about pigeon kin in cities,
flocking to their downtown committees?
With gray pant legs cuffed above pink feet,
birds look lowly and far from elite.
Urban pigeons are working class slobs,
just getting the most out of their jobs.
When they flirt, bobbing heads and cooing,
on sidewalks where they do their wooing,
fast food bosoms plump with carbo fat,
quite alluring to a passing cat.
Together, pigeons fly and then preen,
occupied while traffic light is green.
Unblinking and alert for the red,
when their whooshing wings swoop down for bread.
What if Hitchcock wanted “The Birds” scenes
portrayed by pigeons, fearsome and mean?
They act romantic in St. Mark’s Square
where they play Venetian love birds there.
Pigeons oblige for photo taking,
like movie stars they get rich faking,
fed by tourists who branch arms like trees
and act enamoured by bird feces.
“Rats with wings,” Woody Allen remarked,
he must have seen them in Central Park.
I’ve said all I can and wish to say,
cannot pigeon hole them another way,
for crazy I might possibly go
like that ravened Edgar Allen Poe.