We dance together under couch cushions, while he curses blindly in search
of us.
We tire of responsibility, chained to us as we are to each other, twelve brothers & sisters,
a family of purpose.
We are finally found after the daily search, an eviscerating existential exercise,
he is ours.
We bite his leg with our serrated toucan bills, a heavy choir of pocket jingling, again yearning to tickle tumblers in a few hours.

One of us, exists only as a relic of love
no longer the gatekeeper of hope.
As for the rest of us, other tasks beckon
teeth warmed by a car’s ignition,
an unswift fumbling open of a mailbox,
muffled click at the end of the workday.

We the duty-bound, await the day
we dance discarded in rusted luxury,
in earthen slumber no longer
heavying his pockets,
forever connected.