Tim Lockridge

Our Love Was Like Clean Windows

and still we wondered why the bodies
of birds fell around us. It's an omen,
you said, and soon dust stirred

in the streets like a Western. Horses
walked into the vanishing point
and music swelled while the sun

tucked itself into hills. A lasso
appeared in my hands, and, unsure,
I threw the loop through the night.

The audience erupted, and, odd,
you said, I hadn't noticed them before,
but there they were, the bleachers

bustling and full. The director declared
the evening a wrap and the crew
formed a caravan of Civics and unwound

into Interstate. If I had known my lines
were scripted, you said, I would've
improvised more. Or maybe asked

for something clever. At least this explains
the windows, I said. Another bird kissed
the ground. The stars were color bars.