The doves don’t fly away anymore. Whenever I return to the house, which is also home, they don’t even move away, not in the slightest, but continue to mooch about the front yard, unconcerned. It pleases me that they’re no longer wary of me. But I wondered today if perhaps I’m not really there. If, perhaps, I’ve simply become a ghost, and that’s why they no longer fly away, because there’s nothing to fly from.
How do we know we are real? This could work as a poem too Barry…
A poem as it is? Or do you think I’d have to change anything first?
Try breaking it into three stanzas, ending in ‘unconcerned’ ‘…not really there’ and ‘to fly from’. You never know – and it would be fun to try!
I’m game for something new and fun. I’ll give that a go.
Good point from Helen.