Hebe had true glamor:
she cost a whole twelve dollars
at Cunningham department store's
bird nook in 1964.
She wore a stole of golden plumes
and peeped with bright eyes through the bars
of her little gilded room
decorated with a cuttlebone.
Sipped and shovelled
water and mill
from clear plastic cups
that were always kept full.
Of course we bought her right away
but pretty soon, at home, she opened her bill
and much, much to our dismay
uttered a loud, unexpurgated trill.
Grandma, who lived in the annex
and had mild diabetes informed us
to our shock that females don't sing-
that Hebe must, accordingly, be a boy.
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Comments about this poem (Hebe by Morgan Michaels )
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