Pigeon And The Progeny Poem by saranyan bee

Near about the refectory
next to my office today,
a pigeon makes her nest
in the tucked away hide-out
between the wall and the roof,
there’s always enough room
over up for all this,
but that’s not important.

The little twig, the dove carries
curves up her petite beak
like a twirling mustache,
the bird cogitates the flight path,
weight of her cargo,
thrust necessities at the take off point,
moves her head like a seasoned pole vaulter
that isn’t important either.

A society of rubbles in the air,
other feathers meet her midway
never fearing her spanking masculinity,
go about for popping
at the grains spilling off stock-pots
minding their own business
feeling good about the progeny,
now that is important.