The important thing to know
is that my parakeets were all named Benjamin.
I buried each one
under a tiny-bird tombstone.
Every Saturday I took a taxi to the cemetery,
tapped through ornate gates adored with filigree
to visit my dead.
I made myself comfortable
on an iron bench and tattled tall tales
but parakeets are gullible, full
of good will and afeared of confrontation.
I said to them let me tell you my dream,
let me describe the philosophy of trees
and the anatomy of right thinking.
They answered, we’ll sing along akimbo.