A Sermon
The budgie is dead
maybe it died of loneliness
and depression.
I found it one fine September morning,
how ironic, such a beautiful day,
it was hanging down with
its back towards the outside world,
head stuck into a gap in the bars,
its cheek turned side on
as though afraid to meet our eyes,
it had managed to hang itself.
I had warned the family,
"that budgies not getting enough attention,
it needs warmth and affection, someone
to show that they care."
It wanted to communicate,
to try to let us know how it felt,
cheeping and fluttering,
and banging its wings on the bars.
We were all too selfish or busy to respond.
The budgie is dead,
with a bit of shit grasped in one claw,
and a white feather in the other.
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