parrot with a prosthetic leg

one-eyed, with attendant tunnel-vision,
compassionate accessories aside,
no one will be climbing trees like we used to.

in a state of permanent drizzle,
of thin gray spittle flooding up the deep pores of the world,
from the deepest subway bores and river-crossings,
all the way up to the porch, the door, and across my floor.

how long before we all go in?
we one-legged, one-armed ladies,
hook-handed half-blind villains,
crippled housecats,
handicapped husbands, mad fathers,
mothers in comas,
friends locked behind portholed chicken-wire doors,
lovers with bloodied hands, and bloody eyes,
midget movie stars with bribed brides, heh.
cat-scratched final resting-places,
ringed with fingernail half-moons
for us all.