redux

my back deck, a would-be haven
for doves--
fresh water & a high, safe perch,

but it's mostly
deserted unless I pull the blinds,
then all I see are silhouettes,
landing, resting, taking flight.

every attempted peak propels them
into the air.

the interval grows,
each time, between your lament
and my response--

feigning agreement, no
call to avoid, & I'm
not in your shoes,
the last one to judge.

familiarity isn't always
preferable, and this scene,
my sorry metaphors, your
mule-headed fatalism,

not as inviting
from my lonely-lookout, eastern stare.