Poor Tom.

December.

A few days off.

 Strolling in the city,

vaguely Christmas shopping,

 something for herself,

maybe a ring,

 a ring, maybe.

Crossing the park.

Stop by a pigeon.

 The neck ruffled, textured,

the feathers raised in ridges.

 Why so attracted?

He pecks his way away from me,

 shunning my presence.

(The cat in my lap.

I stroke his head,

firmly, back and forth,

fur down, fur up,

 now sleek,  now bullish.

He squints his displeasure

at being mucked about.)

Phone in pocket rings.

Message! Work!

So-and-so ill!

Can I?

Neck!

Says I can suit myself.

 Says she'll go anyway.

Spoiled! Ring!

Ring her neck!

Joke!

No harm pussy!