Tug Dumbly - Pigeons Don't Mind

Pigeons Don’t Mind  

Randy charcoal

puffball pouter,

purple-green ruff,

pinned hazel eyes,

pulling three moves (at least),

at the same time –

see-saws, circles,

noggin tock-tocks

like a cartoon injun

dancing round a fire

hassling ladies

at the station

in a daylight disco

of shameless pluck: 

                              

buk-a-da-DA,

buk-a-da-DA …

c’mon, love, gis a ride’.

‘Fuckoff

Fuckoff

Fuckoff …’

‘til one caves:

‘oright. Hop on.  

But don’t muck round’.

And he’s up, like a

grommet on a wave,

for the jelly trembling

triumph of seconds  

till dumped

for a crumb, like a

pub punter flung

from a bronco bull.

Doesn’t dust off,

just struts to the next

in a numbers game  

of unloseable odds.

Gotta respect the grit

of the pigeon, unruffled

by a nest of rejection slips

till one comes to fruition.