pigeon penguin

a poem

there is a pigeon waddling
like a penguin and i spy
strokes of white and black
but no green or purple.
pigeon penguin waddles
throughout queensboro
plaza and pigeon penguin
won’t stay still in one spot.

i wonder if pigeon penguin
has a nest she’s created or
a specific set of twigs she’s
put together that are more
comfortable than perhaps
grains of wheat or tufts of
cotton she found in the
trash can when someone
threw their pillow away.

pigeon penguin picks at a
parliament butt or a blue
american spirit butt but
she cannot tell which is
which. can birds develop
nicotine addictions? what
do their recovery groups
look like? pigeon penguin
rests on the metal structures
the mta has painted over
with green. she can see a
reflection on the high rise,
she can see the phones
rising to take a photo, she
has got her angles too and
she won’t let you just take
a photo for free, she won’t
just let you love the idea of
her for thee, she waddles
where she waddles, she
flaps her wings in ways
you cannot, yet she picks
at scraps that fall out of
purses, her friends have a
talon missing, feathers so
different she’s not a part of
the flying v. pigeon penguin,
it must be nice for you to
have a beak. pigeon penguin,
you are so pretty.