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Perusing the Parrot
The ad described your bright yellow and green --
a babbling bird to be both heard and seen.
At dawning I fed you fresh water and food,
fixed your cage near the window.
. . . A more festive mood?
Though sullen at sunset, your colors you shared,
spreading your wings. . . .
Maybe you cared?
I missed you by day;
at night, yearned for your song.
Would radio music inspire it along?
At months two and three
there were squawks without speech.
In months four and five I pondered a leash.
Escaping your quarters, you ate to your pleasure
my picture frame borders;
then, flew in a frenzy, evading my orders.
Once again, I wondered anew:
"What's wrong with this bird?
What more can I do?"
Then an ad in the paper put forth such a deal
that I phoned the collector and made an appeal
for her doll house in trade for my parrot --
a steal!
Encaged in your own Victorian case,
you shined as new merchandise.
I hid your disgrace.
You'd fought your last fight
and your silence was heard.
As I handed you over,
you said your first word.
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