Long ago, a stranger neighbor, from
down the hall, knocked on my door
to say she was moving, and asked
me to take George, his cage and all.
The parakeet perched quiet and blue.
On-the-fly transaction without
much interaction. She’d give a bag
of seeds enough for several weeks
if I’d help with budgie’s transition,
but she needed my quick decision.
Paid little adherence to my lack of
avian experience, she just stated
that George likes a green treat and
sings when there’s light so I’d better
put a cover on his cage at night.
I set the cage in the kitchen
where George tried to harmonize with
household sounds and noises, such as
the faucet’s streaming waterfall, and
the mixer I’d bought at a mall.
I learned that a sole budgie will
find his best friend in a mirror.
To his reflection George confided,
tapping the glass with excitement
like a jailbird on visitor’s day.
Often I’d let that bird wander on
the counter and floor. His clipped wings
hindered high flight. On this or that
he would linger before hopping
a ride on my index finger.
George, like me, readily returned
to his secure abode to refresh,
perch, and view outside comings or
goings until a closed curtain
shielded and contained his world.
Very fond of my little boy blue,
and when apart on our vacation,
I cried when a relation phoned
to relay she had found George dead.
I felt so sad that he’d died alone.
After George’s solitary fate,
I’d always keep two birds, or more,
if a couple happened to mate.
So many feathered acquaintances,
but very few as friendly as George.
Elaine Anne Westheimer 