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UNDERGROUND VOICES: POETRY
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BRUCE STIRLING
mother blue somebody took a shotgun to the bluebird box blew a hole in the day the size of the sun the mother bird searching calling crying as he kneels in blood and blue feathers his apology as worthless as his shame as he runs catches up with the boys and their gun one older one younger his question stopping them cold “don’t know” “something to do" "I guess” land he tells them it’s his land his box his cold winter nights wondering what the hell he’d done with his life while out here in deep country quiet he shapes the world with four-square walls aimed at saving a splash of blue singing on a fence post the seasons passing with no promise so he waited cashed his retirement checks and waited and she came at last mother blue inspecting his offering her song making him forget the waste that was his life servicing another man’s dreams in four-square walls in the middle of the fortieth floor in the middle of Fortieth Street in the middle of the middle of the middle that finally put him out of his misery with a gold watch and a house in deep country quiet mother blue rewarding him at last dragging twigs and grass into his world harboring three blind young when the gun went off the baby birds warm in their nest overlooking pasture and stream he crossed day after day to make sure they were okay okay okay but they’re not listening these brothers in arms terrified they run dropping the gun he grabs and empties into innocence the deep country quiet entombing him as he heads back to his wife and his wood the police finding bodies two bodies in a fallow field bones and cloth dusted with frost Bruce Stirling's short stories appear at Eclectica, BewilderingStories, CautionaryTale, Defenestration, Opium and ThievesJargon. He can be reached at bruce.stirling@yahoo.com View his work at http://gnomonclature.blogspot.com/ |
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© 2007 Underground Voices |
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