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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 
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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