caged birds 

the pet store up the street, the one that i told you about 
has a back room with glass windows full of parrots

it's hidden past the aisles of kibble 
& shuttering white-bar cages

the ferrets sleep on each other like living
lamp posts-- 

i leaned down to i watched their
tiny chests rise & fall, making sure they 
were breathing 

back there: iridescent blue macaws, reds 
plucked from fresh stop signs-- their wrinklked
grey talons gripping the sides of their
cardboard-box lives

the smaller birds chirped like popcorn--
their voices muffled by the glass.

in the foreground the shop owners 
talked about the light rain in Portuguese.

i left without saying anything, 

lingering by the store front a minute or two,
straining to hear their dampened gossip  

would they talk about me or was i just
another human body at a distance.

like all men, the hero complex kicked in
& i saw myself returning in the night,

my iPhone flashlight in the shop window,
a paperclip lock pick

i recall being in 5th grade & trying
to lockup our own front door, needless
to say i broke the knob

this time it would work & i come
to that back room to let all the birds free

they'd stare wild at me, eyes full of
neon & city street hum 

& none of them would budge,

preening each other & telling stories

angry, i'd wave my arms trying to tell them
to run or fly, to escape

the door is open

they'd turn their backs, huddling together,
scared of the creature with 
the strange pink fingers

paper-machete feathered & gripping onto
their cage bars, calling each cage 
mother, mother

don't you want to be free?

& the eldest bird would laugh &
come over to me, he'd take out some
of his feathers & start applying
them to me, saying 

this is a body

& i'd pick the blue cage, the one 
on the top shelf with the little
swing dangling from the top

& the paperclip would break off
in the lock to the front door
of the house, again.

i'd pull off the screen & crawl
in through the window, 
construction paper-feathers
wet from the light rain