Bird

Mr Bird be his name, and indeed his nose
can be said to resemble a beak,
those eyes dart swiftly from side to side.
Hard to imagine him ever flighty, though,
or migrating to some foreign clime.
He served his time in the marriage bed;
widowed now, his wife, always somewhat wispy,
dwindled away completely last autumn.
His dog and cat likewise vacated the nest
and he’s left with a garden ornamented
by statuettes of storks and swans;
a stair-lift, mobility scooter,
a colostomy bag and a parrot gifted
by a great-granddaughter. His hair, in turn,
has fled the field leaving a moustache,
always awry, now looking even more off beam,
like an aeroplane banking side to side.
He tells me one day, he’s been feeling down,
has a face-to-face with the doctor next week,
hopes for some pills to lift his spirits.
And I want to say, You could try talking
therapy but I see a vision of Mr Bird
and the parrot beak-to-beak and instead
You could try talking to the parrot
comes out and I squirm with shame
while Mr Bird looks like he’s been caught
doing something unseemly.