I am not good with birds says Myron
he doesn't care for their names
he fails to appreciate their feathers
if he whistles they don't come
and balance their muscly little weights upon his finger
they don't strop their beaks on his teacups
they don't tell him their piping confidences
or take his purpose grown hair to nest their eggs
they don't process before him down laneways
or announce him through doorways
or cock their heads and fix their beads
and throw his crumbs skyward
or so I imagine on hearing this proclamation
I was good with birds
ReplyDeleteI had a red parrot and
I wore a red dress and
we would eat breakfast
on the back porch while
the sun was setting and
P.S. I love your poem, Mikaela! :)
ReplyDeleteThis is very good and very funny. Thank you very much, Mikaela. (I will have to get you back somehow!)
ReplyDelete