Heard of a woman who did but that
Probably isn't true, birds do of course, every one
Of them, otherwise they'd fall out of the sky &
All the cats would pounce on them & eat them &
They wouldn't need us to feed them anymore, would they,
Which would be a terrible shame, Michael likes cats.
The subject only arose-straight from an instant
Thought to Alison's mouth-not because she feels
Cooped up, although today she does feel cooped up
With Michael & will tell her friend on the phone
Later on, but because of the easy descent into stock
Phrases, the chirping out of the same sets &
Arrangements of words, God she disguises them,
Attempts to fill them out with the intelligence
That sets her apart from a parrot, but it's all
Feathers & there's a squawking repetition underneath,
Falling with a thud to be eaten by a hungry cat &
If she did have feathers Michael would put her in a cage
& Give her a piece of coconut to chew on or maybe
He'd run into the back yard & set her free over the fence.
As the physical scientists
Had hypothesized & posited that I should be.
But by the Wednes of Wednesday
Bally Valhalla, you have to give
The Norsewegians their idiotic credit,
I'd rather cark it in a pool of agony,
Battering my briefcase blindly on the head
Of the juvenile, whose toxicity of aerosol
Has dispatched me,
Battering a skull, bezerk & anaerobic,
With my briefcase & last breath,
Than be yellowing out nonagenarian months
In the bowel of bed-riddance,
Dying every day over weakly sipped soup.