The Feral Parakeet

Far removed from an untouched sort of wilderness,
You sit draped in London’s twilight finery
Cold air and mists, brightly buttoned with street lamps

You and your countrymen find different kinds of comfort,
And though your crests might share the same verdant hue,
Your calls resonate with a certain discordancy.

You’re far from home, little bird,
Far from home and lost
In a Winter more frigid than your bones can remember

You bathe in duck ponds on the hill,
Puff out your chest and mimic the melodies
Of those better suited to this jigsaw piece city,
And call in their tones ‘til you can’t hear the difference

It does not matter.
Those feathers will still paint your unbelonging
Into the old English oak you roost in,
And it will ever grow in ignorance of you.

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