|Jan/Feb 2007 Poetry Special Feature|
Sonnenizio on a Line from Wendy Cope
I had this bird called Sharon. Fond of ginó
it could do the Gingerbread Man in different voices.
After a couple of gin slings, it could out-dance
Ginger Rogers from its perch. I played the harmonica
badly. Behind the scenes. Like noise from cotton gin
ruining the sunrise. I drank gin rickey until
I became a sore virgin, the losing end of a speech
impediment, gingivitis. It made me clean its cage
in my original D&G bathrobe and plastic clogs.
There, myna droppings juxtaposed gingersnaps.
The smell fizzed gin and tonic up my nose.
It called me names. It mocked me in pidgin.
Wretched bird. It even beat me in gin rummy.
Before the ginger cat ate it, I swear it said yummy.