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

(mostly lies)

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.