The Poor Little Dove

The Poor Little Dove

 

To watch the wind play with the wave,

I sat on a bench by the museum garden pond.

 

Then a small pigeon came flying,

Landing to her feet, tiny and cute,

 

And stared up at me, a bit intensely,

Only blinking her eyes, with no other move.

 

She looked like a baby as a camera model,

Getting me to recall my infanthood picture.

 

I took some snaps, but found

She seemed not very pleased.

 

Want something to eat, dove?

I thought, not asked.

 

Want to talk, then, little dove?

I thought, not asked.

 

Her pretty eyes closed, I thought I saw;

She seemed somewhat sad, I felt like I felt.

 

The small bird now having flown away,

I remain alone on the pond-side bench,

 

And vaguely gaze to the waving water,

With a hidden sigh inside my corona-mask,

 

Regretting I'd had nothing to share

With that flown-away poor little dove.