there is a bluebird
laying tombstone still
on the other side
of my windowsill
where dogs bark,
the children play,
and young couples walk by
and the
condom wrappers
and dirty needles
lay together
like lovers
in the city park
they say
“this is nice”
and it is
of course
even for them
I know
it rarely is
still I sit alone
in this dim lit room
staring at
a dead bird
on the other side
to make it through
February,
only to die in
March
is to reach
the bright side
just in time
to watch
the bulb burn
out again
carrying around
these quite,
heavy dreams
has my head
too tired
to go changing lights
so I waited for the
blue skies that scare away the dark
maybe it’s time
to let that bluebird
out there
back inside
my heart