If all of the world lived on my street,
Where would the parakeet sleep?
The blue and the green,
A rosey yellow beak,
The thin black nails…
Where would the parakeet sleep?

The trees would be cut, to build up and up and up.
The bushes plowed,
The gardens razed.
All of the temperature!
Ninety-seven point six degrees,
six billion procreating
space heaters, bumping and frictionizing
into and off of one another, blaming each other
and bruising each other, warranting the next
best thing to genocide: killing your own neighbors.

If all of the world lived on my street,
Where would the parakeet sleep?
The blue and green,
The rosey yellow beak,
The thin black nails…
Where would the parakeet sleep?