most mornings i am up and gone
long before the bird awakens
and begins her loud complaint
that you are still in bed

not up, not about, not crooning
not filling the food dish
not opening the cage to say
come out and play with me

but today's a holiday
and i hear the rising volume
of a cockatiel's complaint
at being ignored. the near
train-whistle panic that you
have simply walked out of the room
without her on your shoulder

also hear you fussing at her
telling her to shush, to wait
be patient, that life happens 
on your time-table not hers
that you are in charge, the boss
the ultimate decider

i wince, hearing the echoes
of what i'm sure i said to you
when your speech was limited
to shrieks and chatter during
that pressured time in my life
when you, like your present pet,
did not speak english