Rags and rosewood countenance
this comfortable antique:
its frayed Art Deco weave's worn through;
its ancient joints all creak.
Its frame is carved
and curved and smooth,
its finger-mouldings fingers soothe--
and may this truth be known:
     I wouldn't trade its coarse horsehair
     for all the down in town.
     It's the finest piece of furniture I own.

Why should I hand the bird that bites me feed?
Why, to satisfy his any want or need.
His show of gratitude is strange indeed.
His well-aimed beak (for fingers not for seed)
attacks my fleshy thumb at lightning speed,
then grabs the proffered grape with lusty greed,
leaving me to curse . . and cry . . and bleed!

I used to have a little clock
that ticked and tocked at will,
and when it wasn't running
Time itself stood still!

I never know exactly how to please him--
whether I should rub or thump or tease him.
When he craves attention
he demands!
My hands respond.
If he approves he bites me on the arm.

I saw a Purple Gallinule
swimming in a shallow pool
of Chinese egg-drop soup.
He took some time to wade and splash,
then waddled down a dappled path
(he's on his way to Guadeloupe).

Despite the airs in this old book
my eyes are now the first to look
upon the print of many uncut pages,
creamy with the mellowing of ages.

It's said that one can get diseases
left by ancient reader's sneezes--
but I'll take any necessary chance
required to procure a virgin glance.

This nose was never spun from gold,
but coldly chiseled out of dross.
It's what the Christians call a "cross"
(to me it is an albatross).

Gather up the dusty dusky blue,
immerse it in a brew of grayish hue,
blend the boiling bubbles briskly through,
then hang it for The Great Unwashed to view.