Thursday, November 18, 2010


the parrots were there, and the avocado tree

and the old ladies who washed clothes on rocks

and I was there; a child

I would play with marbles

but I kept quiet

because they all talked-

the three of them

and I watched the old women throw seed by the tree

“so they can sing for us”

in the evening the wind blew the tree leaves against the roof, lightly

cascading sounds like waterfalls

complimenting the parrot’s chorus

and the women hummed along and knitted

I shot a marble and hit another

each shot reflecting off

each other like a


promised world

And we sat there

the three of us

in a warm night’s semi circle

and now they’re gone, the three of them

I believed in a story without an ending

and it left me a

bitter man

I have known the cold floors of the world

and the parrots sing, no more.

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