The Corellas’ Parade

“they had a pageant for you, Dad”
but Mr Jasmine is sound asleep
she shakes him softly
as one pushes friend’s furniture
for its sturdy feel

—he is sturdy,
six foot two
checked grey skin
marked like a map
she shakes, then feels his
roughness under hand

he wakes and sees a woman’s face
“the corellas, Dad, they’re out again,”
“the pageant’s not for me,” he says,
“it’s for the ones who died,
“who lie in egypt’s salty sand,
“marked by muslim bird shit monuments,”

he mumbles, then regains his footing
on the world, this crashing cymbal
of a stalemate
he watches, silently, the white birds’ troupe
that gay parade

“I like the corellas,” he says
and lightly eyes the wishful flashes
of their flapping wings
and thinks of Steve, and Morgan,
and Jack.

 

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