Matt McBride
Days are pigeon-stitched,
gratuitous with clouds.
Nights are spent
eating leftover sheet cakes,
their occasions forgotten.
The letters bleed:
admonishments of leaf blowers
we use to sweep popped balloons
off our yards.
Our imaginations are a ranch house
with porcelain horses
on the end tables.
In the basement, our heart:
a midwestern child at a drumkit,
starting in on the most boring solo.