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