Misfortune Factory

Bad luck when a bird enters your home, my mother said. 
        Bad luck, by extension, when a pigeon farmer moves in 
                down the street, and one airborne omen craves cold air,
                          or rainwater tastes better than the stuff from the tap, 
                                or your chimney chirps the word for loneliness in birdspeak. 

Bad luck when a feathered blur emerges from your fireplace, 
        and the broom’s gentle suggestions go unheeded,
                and sunflower seeds make an unfitting bribe. 
                          A mother’s superstitions never say how long
                                a symbol of doom expects to be entertained.

And when the bird selects an open window to make
       its encouraged escape, you’ll be left to consider the curse,
                whether it’s on the horizon or already here: after all,
                          you’re the one left lifting soot from the floorboards.
                                I think I heard it from my mother: pigeons are famously vague.