The Pigeon

I'm out here on a ledge
Hanging around, legs
Dangling down, sunshine upon
Mud-crusted knees
Exchanging conspiracy theories
With a very conspiratorial pigeon
He talks a big line for someone
Who walks along the edge
With no worries of ever falling
To the ground.
He pecks my soda can in
An assertive plea for a corner of my
Peanut butter sandwich
I always comply.
We go through this routine
Every lunch hour unless it is raining
I still come-- he claims it makes
His feathers frizzy, preening frantically between mysterious sideways glances
He informs me the noon hour
Is just too damned hot for staying awake
And the sunset over the big buildings
Is worth heading home a little later
I told him it's not in the plans
Anytime soon. I'm just not lonely enough to satiate pigeon boredom.
He knows better. We often sit up here and watch the girls walk by
Far below, mere dots in office attire
He usually asks me to turn up the radio
So he can coo and croon along
And to turn it off when it's time for the news.
Could've guessed this weather or your baseball team lost AGAIN,
He clucks in exasperation.
I realized long ago the bird wanted to stay ignorant of the larger world
Around him, keeping to his safe space several floors removed
From the ugliest acts of humanity.
Yes, those things keep me up at night, too.
Which is why I prefer to take my lunch
With a snarky, disagreeable pigeon
Who proves me wrong every time
About friendship and my frequent Friday choice of egg salad on rye.
So, long, he'll say. The sun's too hot for doing much except burning your legs.
As I climb back in through the window,
I toss a crust to a grateful, blank face.
It's time to go back down to the garden.