Fish Window Number Eight

Fish Window Number Eight
(Save us Jimmy B.)

My life is trick upon myself.
A dead bird fell form the sky.

Jimmy B. jogged up a hill
In yellow,
Pushed through tree branches
And hugged a girl with
A ghetto blaster in her hand.

Is this how birds die?
I thought,
One last fling across the sky
Only to drop like a rock
Into the shade of fish windows?

How can Jimmy B. jog by
And let this type of stuff happen?

Copyright, Doug Stuber, 1988. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given, and with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

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