So you’re not a songbird,
more a janitor in the subway,
a low-down beggar on Broadway.
Few birders pull out binoculars
to watch you up close.
And your diet!
Who’d want to try it?
What would a taxidermist find
inside?
You’re not prized and preserved
by hot-shot hunters.
But you’re not squealing, dive bombing
or complaining about your lot.
And frankly, there’s something
endearing in your coo.
So what if you’re not one of the colorful ones?
Your lawful feathers of concrete gray
suit you with distinguished subtlety.
Those penetrating yellow, blood-shot eyes
evoke a certain sympathy,
but your iridescent ruff of amethyst and jade
remains your visible allotment from heaven,
family jewels of the disregarded angels.