Empty Hands

Another sketch poem of a moment on a bench with a breathtaking pigeon.

                     Empty Hands

                 Armed with a café
               on this gorgeous day,
              there’s little I could say
             to improve it in any way.
             Even a fistful of rhymes
           scattered aimlessly about
              are far less interesting
              than what I have done
             with this day-old bread,
              at least to the pigeons
        gathered faithfully around me,
               their allegiance timed
                   to the last crumb.

              One of these beauties
      with fluorescent throat feathers
               somewhere between
               wisteria and lavender,
        gives me the side eye asking,
                  “Is that all then?”

        I have more in another pocket
             too many minutes away, 
         and while you might be here
                     when I return,
                   the light will not.
        There are so few guarantees
              but what we have here
                       will suffice.

       Insofar as memory affords me, 
              you will always remain
                 my bird in the hand
                    near this bench
                       in the shade
           with an empty coffee cup.
                  But a greater one,
                      all around me,
         runneth over and over again.
      I will show you my empty hands
                and you will fly away.