This One's for the Birds

I always see finches in poems.
If I were a finch, I'd ditch the poems,
do somersaults in poolhouses, drink gin.
I'd ride a unicycle, play the trombone,
wear a leotard backwards.

I would be the finch that doesn't rhyme,
doesn't drool from the end of a poet's pen
like puddling ink. And if the poet persisted,
and he blew me out in splatters, freckling
the page, I'd quickly gather my things,
pick myself off his desk and runaway
to the nearest nudist colony,
where I could be naked like a bird should be,
free of all those pretty things.

We should forget about the finch
and its little beak, red feathers, and morning whistle.
Look at all the other birds out there!
There are chickens that look
like fat ladies in aprons serving breakfast.
Or what about the pelican
and his dipping mouth,
that portable fishtank?

Maybe we shouldn't even go for the birds,
but more for the flying squirrel, or the wasp.
I'll take anything that stings,
but whatever it is, it must have wings.
Yes, it definitely must fly.