Tib Street

It’s nearly fifty years now,

But I remember the smells;

Old rotten sawdust mingled

With the desiccated, exotic shit,

Of so many creatures.

Damp wood, stale piss,

And beneath it all,

The sweet smell of fear.

Tiny cages stacked up

Right out into the street,

A high rise city of such diversity,

You couldn’t help but be fascinated.

So many haunted black eyes,

Like jewels glistening in their filthy recesses.

Long fingers, scabby fur,

Tatty feathers like faded rainbows.

Crests and shrieks and clicks.

The swirling miasma of sounds,

Smells, and insidious despair

Somehow drawing you deeper

And deeper inside, until there you are.

Standing, in the centre,

And you see him, before you.

Proud, on a perch,

King of all he surveys,

With a golden beak,

Like treasure in a coal face,

Like a comet in the night sky,

Quizzical, head on one side,

Suddenly pouring forth words,

Cocky as a market trader,

As flash as the flashest Harry:

“Hello! Hello! Who’s a pretty boy?

What are you looking at?”

Wolfwhistling like a sailor out on shore leave,

With a pocket full of cash

And trousers full of love.

Strutting and bobbing like a punchdrunk boxer.

Weaving and whistling his cocksure seranade.

I coveted that mynah bird so.

He had the beauty of a blackbird,

With the bravado of a magpie,

And I wanted him to be my friend

and ride on my shoulder to school.

We would play in the woods together,

And he would fly in the trees

High above my head,

Finding me shiny things,

And I would feed him treats.

At night he would sit at the foot of my bed,

And tuck his head under his wing,

And say “G’night, sweetheart,”

And I would say, “Goodnight, bird,”

And we would both sleep soundly,

Dreaming of new adventures.

I never had a mynah bird.

But I hope each and every one was bought,

And loved, and lived a good long life,

Away from Tib Street.