Playing With the Bird

The beautiful
Blonde-haired boy,
Having finished his ice-cream,
It's time to play with the bird.

Mommy keeps the steak-knives in the top drawer,
He remembers.
She's gone to see Daddy in the hospital;
Yes, now he can play with the bird.

Grey, rickety old feather-bag,
Slouching on its perch.
Wake up birdie!

Knife-point creeps between the wires
Behind where birdie can't see.
A flurry of wings as Randy darts to the other side of the cage.

The boy inserts the knife at the far side;
Another mad rush to the other side of the cage,
Again, poke and panicked flight,
Feathers slamming against the wires.

Birdie bites stupidly at the blade;
The boy laughs,
Pokes at Randy's tailfeathers:
Can't quite find birdie's butthole;
That's what the boy's looking for,
To stick Randy in the asshole with a steak-knife,
See if he can make the bird his little feather puppet on a stick.
But Randy's so fast, always gets away.
Maybe I should keep going until he gets tired.

The rumble of a car;
Mommy's home.
Better stop poking at birdie's butt, he realizes,
Or she might get mad and put me in the hospital with Daddy.
He puts the knife back in the top drawer.
Mommy walks in as he makes like
He's been playing with his toy dump-truck.
He smiles making "Rooom, rooom" noises.
There'll always be other times to play with the bird.

George Chadderdon © 2000