From across the living room
the cockatiel, whose name
is Louie (because Mary Ellen
thinks he sings, "Louie, Louie"),
flies to my left shoulder.
His beak brushes my ear.
He squawks. Then he tramps
across my shoulders to the other arm.
He climbs down my sleeve, gripping
with his beak. He stands
on the table, quizzically examining
my hand. He decides it is not edible,
then flies to the kitchen counter.
I have been walked on by a bird.