Steady Work
A completely white, proud pigeon scrub
Waddles in and out, of the push and mud
At heart a, beautiful dove
Everyone would surly love
Ticks infest and picks at his ribs
Yesterday’s dinner still stuck, to his bib
Untethered
By the weather
A single goal, in mind
For more food, to find
Never seems enough
It has made him, street tough
At the end of the day
He’ll fly
Away
To a perch
Forgetting about work
Inside would be, the best
But, he is a realist
He just needs a short rest
Some sleep
Then back on his feet
Maybe tomorrow
A different street
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