Polly has a number of deeply held beliefs:
Daylight savings time is a conspiracy
against poor people.
All the problems with George W. Bush
can be explained
by a botched circumcision.
Polly is not unpleasant, but she can be strident.
She wears colorful beads.
She prefers the company of birds.
Dozens of cages contain hundreds of bright, busy budgies.
Some of them will perch on her finger, singing.
Some will never accept her.
“It’s a survival instinct,” she says.
The house reeks of budgie poop.
Other than avians, Polly lives alone.
Polly bought a computer.
A fancy surge protector flashes a red light
indicating a broken ground.
It’s a three-prong outlet,
but when I open it,
there’s no ground wire.
I explain to Polly that somebody replaced
the original two-prong outlet with a three-prong,
though they never added an actual ground wire.
“You mean, they made it look like
a grounded outlet even though
they knew it wasn’t?”
“Exactly.”
Polly frowns. “Now that is an evil act.”
She’s right. Sort of.
It’s petty evil.
On Polly’s terms, there’s evil everywhere, constant menace.
Polly is ever on guard.
You get the sense that she’ll never be your friend.
Or anybody’s friend.
Some birds will never perch on fingers.
YOU ARE READING
Construction Zone
PoetryThere's dirt under my fingernails, sawdust in my hair. I'm proud to say I hammer nails. Install toilets. Hang drywall. Welcome to the construction zone. Note: I've had to "unpublish" a few poems from this collection because they are going to appear...
