BIRDWOMAN OF PARK SLOPE
With dogs and babies safely in tow,
Cappuccino sippers enjoy the flow
Of pensive consultants and rushing commuters,
Schoolchildren with backpacks and shiny scooters
Going by Connecticut Muffin’s area,
A favorite Park Slope bencheteria
On shop-filled Seventh Avenue,
Where beer was once the favorite brew.
And often a curious kaffeeklatscher
Turns into a fascinated watcher,
Eyes fixed on the building opposite
And a window open just a bit.
A mini-flock of pigeons is feeding,
At the fourth-floor sill, with one succeeding
In grabbing more than a tiny morsel
By batting its wings so that the force’ll
Knock back its rivals from the prize.
At this point the window starts to rise
And a wild-haired woman, head held back,
Extends an arm and gives a whack
Dispersing all the birds except
The grey-black champion, most adept
At taking care of No. 1.
As it feasts alone, the woman’s begun
To envelop the champ and slowly, slowly
To ease it in, now part-way, now wholly.
Down comes the window, and feathers fly
As the flock seeks another crumb supply.
The kaffeeklatscher chats with a friend,
Then reads the Times to the lengthy end
Intrigued enough to wonder when
The swept-in bird’ll come out again.
But in it stays. Apartment-bound
Or possibly down underground,
Its fate seems likely to be unsound.
Did the feeding woman snare the pigeon
To bring some light to a flat that’s stygian?
To fill a role in a cult or religion?
To turn into a pie in the kigeon,
Partaking of it smidgen by smidgen?
Or is the woman, full of anguish,
Instructing it in pidgin Angluish?
As sure as there’s a landmark bridge in
Brooklyn, something’s up with that pigeon
Which drains the caffeine scene of hope
For avian mercy in the Slope.
A feather–no more–remains on the ridge in
The neighborhood that’s down one pigeon.
On the positive side: Birdwoman, did you rob
Some Frenchy of a future squab?