Morgan Michaels

'Hey', I said, aiming the hey downward
toward a pot wedged in the corner, carefully planted
two weeks before with seeds of batchelor's buttons
according to package guidelines
for time, depth, moisture, exposure, etcetera
and set by bushes, charged with yellow roses
nodding heavily to one another, which
thorns notwithstanding, I intended to douse.
'Hey' to a smooth, gray pigeon-
attractive enough as pigeons go
who'd turned the porch into a dove-cote
and a flower pot into a sort of nest.
We'd gotten used to each other
after it wore off-early mistrust,
like the quick wore off the planters
exposing map-like zones of tolerance
respecting each other's goals:
that being the most important function of tolerance:
to stay the hand while we get used to things;
and miffed I was at first,
to see labor lost, the sprouts all squashed-
expecting to see them instead like a hot stock
split and split and fill the pot.
Alarming but charming the way she made her shape conform
to the bed of dirt, bent on her intent
brood-hypnotized thoughtless,
pigeons not held to think much, anyway.