PIGEONS

They were cooped inside the minds
Of my father’s generation;
Men who never gave a thought to mites and lice
Or gooey droppings where their feathers stuck
To backyard seams
And tar roofs of rippled tin
Walled with chicken wire…
Stove topped chimneys puffed like older men
Who fumed before they lost their temper;
Releasing them to dip and flank
Where the sky seemed stilled in thoughts of heaven;
Blanketing the pettiness of men…
There’s a comfort in those things
Which make for home
Forsaking any choice they have for freedom –
Cooing like a child’s deep satisfaction,
Rocking in its mother’s arms.