Parakeets

And then, there she is, the girl of this summer. Tennoji station west entrance. I arrive from the rain in my slidey-shoes and she's sitting knees up like something abandoned just this side of nowhere. Is she homeless? Is she crazy? Is she real? In each fist she holds a light-blue parakeet, staring deep into the eyes of the left-hand while smelling the throat of the right. Their cheeps and chirps too stressed to be a song, except perhaps of protest. Encircling her, like the roots of some mythic tree, the bags of boredom's shopping. She watches me watching her and turn away. At such times, I wish I was drunk and with you. We would lean down and learn her tale. We would ask her what those birds are named.