There’s birdseed on the table, and as I sit and muse,
I notice the eraser on my pencil is chewed through.

The wooden shelves above my head have several dips and peaks,
the same is true of wallpaper, above the shower leaks.

Sugar, still left standing where the packet was torn up,
A bright and shiny penny at the bottom of my cup

All the times I told that bird to stop, or go away.
I sure wish I had the door closed--—my birdie flew away.

Pecking at my necklace, couldn’t wear my watch or rings,
Nor a pair of earrings, they became her new playthings.

Always on my shoulder, hiding in my hair.
It’s seeming strangely quiet, not having her perched there.

Wanting her neck ruffled, to get at that last itch,
And then a final ouchful bite… what a birdie bitch!

Walking on the floor, to spy things that looked like food.
Telling her to watch the dog, not doing any good.

Flying where not wanted, landing was the same.
Chasing her around the house---what a silly game.

Couldn’t really pet it; wouldn’t listen when I talked.
And every time I bathed it, she’d hesitate and balk.

She left me on a cold, and  snowy  bitter, icy day.
Probably didn’t not last long---wasn’t made that way.

And yet I still look upward, to the very tippy-top,
Sometimes I pretend to see her, and quietly scold "Hey, Doc!"

                                 D.K.Walker

e-mail: spearmint100@yahoo.com