Dan Flore

The birds in the tree

they laid in the park like a sneak preview of being resurrected from their caskets but I didn’t want to tell them that the sun looked too old on their heads. I would’ve walked up to every father and said  I didn’t sleep with your daughter. Even if it was a lie. I just wanted to say how are you, thank you for keeping my childhood on your spice rack. I’m sorry I don’t want to leave but all we ever wanted from the beginning was to kiss goodbye. I’m sorry I’m already gone. Did the mortician do your lipstick? I’m glad you’re at peace with how you’re dead. R.I.P.

and I spent the night on the other side of your roads
when the deer were dying and dark
I wanted you to come out from your statue houses in khaki shorts
to let me into your imaginary guest rooms
but you were in the dust of your welcome mats
and I couldn’t get past your smiles
I wanted to die by the stones in the mulch of your gardens
and on your daughter’s dining carts in their television worlds

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