An Intruder 3 Poem by Morgan Michaels

Let me say straightaway, pigeons don't do it for me.
Maybe I've lived in the city too long.
If men can be called opportunists in the world of nature
Pigeons might be called the same in the world of men-
Having no clear role but to propagate the species
Which they appear to do with gusto,
Day and night, all seasons of the year, unlike men,
Unless perhaps to serve as falcon-fodder.
They speak no intelligible language, don't sing, and mightily puffed,
Drag their lecharous tails through the August dust
Bill-cooing and straddling each other in a lovey-dovey way.
Their nests scarcely masterpieces of avian architecture-
In fact, they seem the air-buses of the earthier bird world
Weak-footed, bottom-heavy:
But this pigeon seemed different-
It was clean, pearley gray and, though motionless, industrious,
And bore a mirror of irridescence at its throat;
Minded its own business,
Bent, it seemed, on following the dictates of instinct
And wanting no trouble.
'Shoo, ' I said, firmly. It watched me in red-eyed wonder.
What to do? I felt like an intruder in my own home.
So I called Bob for some New Jersey council,
Across the river, soon after the pigeon moved in.
We talked for an hour-his opinion was very clear
But I didn't like it-it just wasn't me.
I am not...