There are wiled parrots in London,
Small green little guys like vendors of exotic trivia.
They perch above me in trees whose large leaves are prepared to fall like wet paper.
In the laden branches seedpods ripen to be mature and fertile,
And like surgeons who retrieve the unborn they split the cases, infatuated with their tasty interiors.
 
The discarded shells fall to the tarmac below like spent cartages,
Each week I brush away their sediment.
Now the birds call as if high pitch machines,
Born with dexterous hands they cry and spit,
And all were given is claws and except our sodden plumbs within this rain, but here is happiness.
 
They are never scare by my clattering job,
Unaware that my sweeping is connected to there meal,
Or my broom is akin to their shiny dark beaks.
They fail to see this surface beneath the tree that is not tomb of their leftovers,
Or that they are beautiful, like bullet holes through a drab city afternoon to an Eden of green that touches your sole.