A Poem from 1968, Revised by the Ghost of Richard Brautigan, 2004 (fifteenth in a series)
three 911 quail in a cage next door
and they are the sweet delight of our mornings,
calling to us like small frosted cakes:
but at night they drive our God-damn cat Jake
but at night they drive that puffy lipidpirate Michael Moore crazy.
They run around that cage like pinballs
as he stands out there,
[thick neck bibbed, knife and fork poking from pale chubby fists,]
smelling their asses through the wire.