Woolworth Parakeets

They nod, gridded against windowglass
and no wide eyes. But you behave
passively, beginning to pass
knowing you cannot save
them, as though they'd sing in your parlor
and learn the swears you'd teach.
They live anonymously here, not unlike your
countenance; still, you reach
to see what you can afford--another existence
that you could well do without,
and it without you--so you two trade silence
for subsistence, and you scout
the aisles for fragrance, razors, any other thing
to carry yourself well past remembering.