Free bird, blue bird, dead bird

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