It is Tuesday,
and the pigeon nesting above my door
is moaning his sorrow,
his desire
for a mate and eggs.
He is alone,
he has no one to flock
or scavenge with
so he moans his loneliness
all spring and summer.
In fall and winter
he is silent
giving into the loneliness
of his chronic bachelor life
until the seasons turn
and the desire
in his loins rises again.
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