Never could I win the friendship of the thing.
No, he wouldn't perch on my shoulder
or eat seed from my hand.
That damn bird cost money, plenty too.
I was his master, but he wasn't my pet.
Occasionally, if I held my finger out, real close
maybe, maybe he would hazard a hop
like a nervous bather sticking a toe into icy waters.
And talking?
Polly wanna cracker, ha
Polly gonna bite
and he hurt.
He never understood me nor I, him.
Perhaps something Freudian imprinted on his brain
just after hatching,
or maybe
he just wanted to stretch his wings in a place
where they wouldn't touch iron bars.

Winter
the cold would have killed
so I wrapped a blanket around the cage,
but
I opened the door
trying
one more time
for friendship.
Bolting
out the cage, he flew atop the bookcase
then fluttered his wings against the wall.
He seized the opening above the top window
and perched there for just a moment,
then he spread his tropic red, green feathers wide
wide into the arctic air.

©Richard Fein