Parrot in the Room


The place had been deserted long enough
for rabbits to sneak up
to watch their glassy eyeballs in the big French door.
The wind nosed at the catch, the door blew wide
and the parrot in the tree
became a parrot in the room.

Did it fly a coloured circle
like a variegated bomb
before it hit on target at the lamp?
It wrecked some of its feathers —
little clumps for us to find like Indian headdresses.

The wind was a happy murderer snapping
the door shut.
And what then did that bird brain comprehend
as it careened round the table,
(droppings on the floor), swooped a wild parabola
up the bath?
That life is the smell of water,
a metallic cut;
(the seed heads on the grasses sway outside)
and man’s shelter can be death in sly disguise.

But there is no sign nor smell
of bird body.
There is excreta on the lamp …
Its white bowl hangs encrusted next to a hole
picked in the ceiling,
white plaster cake crumbs on the floor.

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