The Pigeon and The Tramp
They couldn’t have looked more relaxed if they tried.
On the floor lay the bird with the sun on his back,
A wing stretched out,
You’d almost think he was oblivious to the screech of children,
The swing of my leg if it weren’t for his eyes-
Glassy, orange beads that would not rest.
Up and down they went, left and right, anywhere
But the tramp moulded to the bench.
He’d been sipping from a flask until in afternoon heat
His eyelids drooped, his body slid, his head went down,
Chin to his chest.
Greasy hair stuck to his scalp like sodden shoelaces.
His checkered shirt was stained but his shoes,
His polished black shoes shone, almost mirrored the clouds.
They both slept, but the bird was watching everything.
He was alert, ready for when the little boy jumped
Too close and he took off, disappeared behind the fresh green
Of young leaves, the chime of the clock striking three.
The tramp didn’t stir- not for the child, or the bell, or
The flask as it broke free from his hand and
Dropped, clattered, noisily to the ground.