Polly

End of the day. A bar where you ought to leave a tip.

The green bird was saying pretty pretty pretty,

loved ones were walking home across the city.

I waved at the girl who waves her whip    ...    

but please be certain I’m a citizen    ...    

I take stuff to the dump    ...    or maybe it’s the tip?

I’m where the nitty really meets the gritty.

I know I find it hard to listen.

I read too much. I often need a drink.

It isn’t the world that makes us think,

it’s words that we can’t come up with.

Sure, I can work up fresh examples

and send them off to the committee.

But the poetry is in the bird. And in the pretty.