I promise:
this poem is only about weather
and the pink flamingos
drowning in the back yard.
Old Man Winter fought tooth
and nail against warming:
10 days of school shutdown
over four different storms
and a fifth one predicted
to be on the way.
I’m tired of it, as are the pink
flamingos, sinking back there
in the mud, the babies just
toppled over, sleeping in puddles
like some bunch of idiot birds,
a flock, a pat, a stand, a regiment,
a colony, whatever you choose
to call them; our pink, muddy
flamingos require a lifeguard
on this soggy Super Bowl Sunday
and football is the last thing
on anyone’s mind.
michael jarmer 
Bro, I love that your sense of the animal world is, like mine, plastic. You also remind me of a line in an older poem of Heather McHugh’s where the babies with their heavy heads keep tipping over.
I’m reminded of the Prince tune covered by Sinead O’Connor: Nothing compares to your Budgies.