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There are parrots on my windowsill
feathered blue green and purple
like the peacocks in my piano man’s backyard
that dance to his tunes when he’s out of sight
to me and my feathered black head
that sinks in the rain when he leaves me every time
for the peacocks.
He is a pretty child
like my newer love‚ the one who sleeps
with a basket of cheroots on the pavement
of dawn‚ his head leaking like milk from a jar
like the fumes from the cheroot he sells
to passers–by wrapped in their dog days
to passers–by soaked in their dog days
when the sunlight forms dogs on the shadows
when you know that even the moonlight tonight
will be silhouetted like a dog‚ like the parrots
on my windowsill howling like a dog‚ howling
like the shadow of a dog.
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