A Parrot Called Chicken Poem by Gert Strydom

He sits featherless on his stick
and his head turns
to one side and then the other
while he looks at the bright light
that gives heat
stopping the darkness.

Naked of every feather
from the one or other
incurable disease,
which harmed his body
and left him
like a stripped fledgling,

sometimes he climbs
up and down
swift like a small ape
to pick up rice
and other delicacies

and still he stays caged in
beyond bars
that keeps the world outside
and folding domed over him.

When the dogs bark
he whistles at them
and with time
they ignore him,

but for one
that hops up and down,
turning his head skew
making small crying noises
not able to comprehend
that the bird
is able to talk to him.

He is clever enough
to identify people
by their names
and when you walk past
to greet
until he hears
hello chicken,
or he will say it to himself
or loose his temper
and croak screeching
to get an answer.