Grey pigeon flutters on ledge of concrete.
Wonder, how it survives on urban streets.
Seen them flock in city squares as folks throw seeds.
Unlike hawks don’t swoop down and snatch with greed.
Dusk falls gets draped in a pall of thick smog.
A few sparks rise as I add some new logs.
Glance at fireplace, feeling somewhat woeful.
Reminisce about my city beautiful.
Childhood, open spaces, song of Bulbul.
Cycling to school in fog, feel bit wistful.
Now cooped up on seventh floor in a high rise.
Eavesdropp at my avian mate and realise
With surprise, we are misfits and loners.
Why it shuns trees and prefers asphalt floors?
Its eyes look sort of haunted, rarely speaks.
Don’t recall lately with anything in its beak.
Lost in thought I pull up my patchwork quilt.
Just then a cloud bursts and rain falls in sheets.
At dawn, wobble to window, feeling groggy.
The ledge is deserted, covered with bird droppings.
Oh, my ally of last night, have a safe flight.
No words, speech: intuitively shared our plight.
Pray you reach home back with your kith and kin
And your life is filled with joy, peace and bliss.
Chandigarh, a city in Northern India is called city beautiful
Mamta Agarwal
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/are-we-misfits-feel-intrigued/
