The most important thing to know
is that I buried each parakeet
under a tiny tombstone.
Every Saturday I take a taxi to the cemetery,
tap through ornate gates adored with filigree
to visit my dead.
I make myself comfortable
on an iron bench and tattle tall tales
but parakeets are gullible, full
of good will and afeared of confrontation.
I say to them let me tell you my dream,
let me describe the philosophy of trees
and the anatomy of right thinking.
They answer, we’ll sing along akimbo.