Obituary To a Parrot

Boris is dead. The fatalist parrot
No longer screams warnings to Avenue A.
He died last week on a rainy day.
He is sadly missed. His spirit was rare.
The cage is empty. The unhooked chain,
His pitiful drippings, the sunflower seeds,
The brass sign, "Boris" are all that remain.
His irritable body is under the weeds.
Like Eliot's world, he went out with a whimper;
Silent for days, with his appetite gone,
He watched the traffic flow by, unheeding,
His universe crumbling, his heart a stone.
No longer will Boris cry, 'Out brief candle!"
Or "Down with tyranny, hate, and war!"
To astonished churchgoers and businessmen.
Boris is dead. The porch is a tomb.
And a black wreath decorates the door.