The canary perched
on Janice's finger.

Her eyes wide
in amazement,
its plumage,
yellow, sickly,
beauty, all in one.

I looked on,
eyes wide
in amazement, too,
not at its yellow
plumage, but at
the bird's whitish poo.

Look what it's done,
Janice cried,
on my finger
and hand.

Her gran,
who usually said,
Make sure
the window's closed,
lay in a chair
and dozed.

Wipe it off
or take the bird,
Janice said.

I took the bird
in cupped hands,
studying its
slight alarm,
its ruffled look.

Janice went to
the kitchen to clean
her hand and finger
under the tap,
while Gran grunted
in her catlike nap.

The bird wanted to
escape my hold,
but I held it firm,
cupped tight in hands,
in captured hold,
studying its yellowness
and thimble head.

Janice returned
and said;
Naughty bird
to poo on
Janny's hand
and finger,
and took back
the bird
into her care
once more.

My hands
were clean;
it had not
shat on me,
not a bit,
if it had,
I thought,
not said,
I’d have
strangled it.