Parrots

Parrots don't believe in evolution. They squawk about
the missing, hissing links. Talking snakes with legs,
saltine cracker wrappers, side by side with raptor
bones, or Paris fashion hats with T. Rex tails--can't be
found. Religious cults abound; in St. Polly's name
they pray in unknown tongues, repeat their litanies from
inside wired cages, making supplications to their gods
for bleached-flour wafers, cleansed with salt. They hate
deserted islands, pirates, treasure chests, but have such reverence
for tradition, they show up for the pictures--at a minimum,
do a fly-by, as long as it's for scale. They often change
romantic partners after empty nests, don't read
the papers (they're covered with so much crap), get
their news from magazines in check-out lines and barbershops--
Hollywood gossip, politics and hip-hop are their favorite
subjects--they're really into repetition. Parrots don't believe
in revolution. They don't think the world is one big curve,
thrown to strike them out. They don't play baseball
yet. Hence, no hot dogs, peanuts, Cracker Jacks. Nights
are spent perched on barstools sucking cocktails. Tropical
drinks are their weakness. Pink umbrellas in their beaks,
they drink to forget day jobs, wives sitting at home
on the eggs. When out of town on business, they'll hit
some kinky clubs, check out the chicks in cages, swinging
above their cherry heads, fly home just in time for breakfast
with stories of their trip--plantains big as airplanes,
crickets sweet as crispy cremes.