mocking birds

by harps mclean

 

shovelfuls of chapped daylight burn the dirt to the ground
the sun sets somewhere like work on a gallow
    raging & rattling scraping the bed of the horizon

i've been under this bramble of a tarp
on a pile of dead skeet
waiting all day for the sun to go down

the farmer's almanac says it should be dark
maybe i've been made
clouds can't be trusted      rolled over on their back like cats

i buried enough ammo to arcade all night
but i knock the first star like spackle

it crumbles and falls to your window sill
like mocking bird bones

BACK

Copyright © Stickman Review. All rights reserved.