Like the pigeon,

trapped behind the chicken wire that’s,

around the HVAC platform that’s,

across the roof from

the window of the cubicle,

with gray walls,

enclosing gray cabinets,

at a gray desk,

in a gray chair,

on a gray carpet.

Commiserating.

One imprisoned soul to another.

Until the other

struts through the hole

made in the chicken wire,

meant to keep it out,

flaunting its freedom,

pecking to and fro,

wherever it will,

despite human ingenuity.

A gray body

below oddly iridescent head,

shiny with sunlight.

Resenting.

One embittered soul toward another's

good fortune.