Paul Willason Poet Free verse

Hector

He claimed the highest perch
in the breeding loft and was, by far,
the biggest pigeon in the flock.
I named him Hector.
A thick, puffed up ball
of red feathers and testosterone 
made him stand out
and was a gift from a leading fancier
eager to improve the bloodlines
of my rather lowly lot,
some of whom were descendents
of birds rescued from the local
railway station stock. 
Poor company
to the haughty
racing thoroughbreds
of the Queenstown pigeon club.

Hector had only one leg
and would stand balanced
on a single pin. I often wondered
whether he was gifted to me
as a joke. Unfortunately 
he was no good at breeding
as he kept falling off the hen
before he had the chance to mate.
It seems pigeons need
both legs to balance long enough
to conclude the act
and poor Hector would 
always topple off too soon.
He found no outlet
for his lust and added no royalty 
to the genes
of my rather peasant flock.

Before I reached my teens,
interest in pigeons had waned 
and the few short years 
of racing them came to a close.
By then Hector had escaped
carrying his frustrations 
and pedigree off into the blue.
Much to the chagrin 
of the local racing elite,
a small, scruffy hen,
part progeny of the railway
station stock, had scored
a number of prestigious wins.
The club was glad 
to see me go and my name
somehow quickly fell
from the honor wall
like Hector off a hen.

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