That you saw a bird
with feathers taped to feathers
that were the wrong color
and did not laugh
until you cried
because the bartender would refuse to serve you
for being too conscious
or that you saw a bird
with feathers taped to feathers
that were the wrong color
and did not laugh
because you thought the sex would be amazing
instead of self conscious and
sorely vulnerable
on the sort of scale
that makes eye contact afterward
a hazard, at best,
impossible at worst,
or that leaving a home
colored like a kindergartener
with a box of glitter wax sticks, carrot orange,
smoke blue, and nothing else
could be a good idea
in any version of any reality,
if and only
if, you showed enough skin
or that you saw a bird
with feathers purposed and few and
thought that bird
would relinquish his spot
on the high tension lines
with a good view of the sunset
because you're over done plumage
was hard to overlook
for its volume, but not loud enough
to drown out any fraction of
your ear splitting personality?
The answer is:
no, I cannot give you a smoke
because this is the
first of what will be my last nineteen and
I am saving my last one,
all nineteen,
for my invisible friends
who are more real to me
than a significant percentage
of what encompasses you.
