I listen to the moon but it doesn’t say much about my life.
Quiet night is for my cockatoo. He keeps chattering
until my neighbor comes over to complain. Then I read
a local newspaper: no murder, no robbery, one grandmother
fell down the stairs and broke her hip. I lick my inky fingers
and order my imaginary chauffeur to get ready—I’ll visit her
and comfort her. I’d say, I read about you, I’m terribly sorry,
this is my cockatoo, he’s twelve and loves carrots.
We’d share her hospital dinner and be happy.
Other sick people gather around us, admiring my cockatoo,
who looks proud in his cage, unfurling his light-pink wings
like stage curtains, and I’m his assistant. Grandma,
worried that I’ve become silent, tells me how tired I look.
“I had a series of nightmares,” I say, “my boss returned
from the grave and fired me, bats attacked me like slow bullets
but bigger, I was bleeding.” She says: “When I’m alone,
I paint eyes on a pear and whisper, I’m watching over you.
That makes me stronger.” Back home, my body thin and healthy,
cooling my feet on a crystal ball like a psychic out of business,
I look out the window: I don’t know which leaves will fall first or why.
There aren’t many trees left. Not much is left of this little town.
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