regrets

she asks me
with her pencil in
hand, notebook
on her lap, glasses
on the tip of her
long educated nose
if i have any
regrets. she taps
her pencil,
eraser end down,
and waits patiently
for an answer, i'm
almost asleep
on the couch, my
feet are up. i can
hear traffic
out on the street.
i see an ordinary
pigeon on the sill,
and the ghost of
him in the reflection.
his rainbow neck
of color bobs
nervously. regrets,
i say out loud.
none, actually. not
a single one.
and she says, hmm,
i think we're on
to something.