It’s rare to hear a story
That you haven’t heard before,
Especially when memories
Seem locked behind a door.
But yesterday I heard about
A parrot who could talk
And when my dad came home from school,
It would begin to squawk,
“Georgie’s home!” repeatedly.
My aunt, who told the tale,
Said that’s the only name it yelled,
Each school day, without fail.
I don’t recall my father
Ever mentioning this bird.
Perhaps it was a memory
That somehow got deferred.
Yet as my aunt recalled this,
She laughed hard and so did we,
The image of a boyhood George
As clear as it could be.
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