Gobi (not your real name), where were you
before whoever left you here? What color
was the room around your cage? In a sunny spot
or cold gray corner? What sounds? TV? Radio?
An old hi-fi booming Brahms or Baker? Or nothing—
off to work they went, leaving you with lawnmowers
buzzing outside plush Connecticut digs? Or car honks
below your high rise? You hate being misted, insisted on
in all the books. Vegetables, ideally 75% of your diet,
remain uneaten and get yelled at. You still whisper
'I love you' to whoever taught you how,
the whoever who is never coming back.