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Blue Birds I know I’m an idiot, thinking of the nights we laid on our backs making imaginary animals with our hands on my bedroom ceiling. You didn’t know it, but I envisioned a future for us in Dallas, where the days came up hot and dry. I’m an idiot remembering how we fought off sleep with dirty jokes and old Pearl Jam songs that I lip synched to. You told a joke about a fat kid who lost a hundred pounds by overdosing on laxatives. I liked that one. I liked the animals. We had them huddled in the corner scared of what we’d say next. You then said something about how when you were seven your mother ran over a family of pigeons with her shitty Astro van. How when you looked out the back window as she sped off it looked like a can of smashed blueberry’s with red icing drizzled over the top. I said your imagination was much better than mine, and you should write more poems. You laughed. And said you were sticking to telling dirty jokes, and designing animals for bedroom ceilings. Tonight I continue to think of these moments. I listen to the December rain tap on the front porch. Like bird’s feet on a newspaper floor.
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