You wake up in the morning
And fall out of your bed
Mean cats eat parakeets
And this one’s nearly dead.
You dearly wish the wind would shift
And greasy windows slide
Open for the parakeet
Who’s colored bitter lime.
Open the window
And lift into your dreams
Lately, baby
You can barely breathe.
A broken wrist
An accident
You know that something’s wrong
You fold the leavings of your past
No one knows you’ve gone.
The sunspot flares of the early
Nineties light up your wings.
And scan the shotwave radio
It’s tracking outer rings.