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

(mostly lies)

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.