Staying at Roberto’s family compound in Cartagena, this is what I wake up to every morning–three parrots with a lot to say.
And here’s my poem about them.
Cramped and dilapidated cage
on the patio floor. Three green parrots
stare out. Wings clipped to thwart their nature.
Paco, Pepe, and Jay munch on sunflower
seeds, hang upside down, do pull-ups
with their beaks and crap in their water bowl.
Estupido and torpe, they scold.
They know a lot that goes on here.
Sometimes they sing, in chorus. Lovely
sweet voices. Next minute,
rude curses. You’re screwed,
they yell in Spanish, over and over.