there is a dog in the yard
on a leash that is tied
to a tree
and it’s trying to get away

the sprinklers are running

there is a white fence
there are cars driving by
and there you are
behind it all
staring out of a window

staring out at the flies dying
the concrete heating in the sun
the bicycle tied endlessly
to a telephone pole with one tire
never to be rescued

you are staring out at the birds
shitting on your driveway
and the dandelion poofs that just
float on by
the ones that don’t give a shit about you

and you are still sitting there
behind that window
behind that prison of a window
where you just do nothing
just wait for the mailman to stop by
with a big brown box
and inside of that box
is the dream that you ordered
when you were a twelve year old girl
and it fits just right
red and slinky and crawling down to the floor
it fits you
like it was tailored perfectly to you
and you deserve it
for all your hard work
all the days you’ve put in
all the tears you’ve cried
and the sweat that you have sweat
this dream is yours

don’t wear it in the rain
it might shrink
it might get dirty

do you even remember how to jump in puddles?
do you even remember what a mistake tastes like?
do you even remember how sexy a voice can be
when it is hoarse
and dry
and thirsty
for someone
or something?
do you even remember what it feels like
to taste a cake that you baked yourself?

you just dance on the roof of this house
that someone else built with their hands
with your dream
your pretty red silk dream
amongst the white cotton ball clouds
and the bluest sky you have ever seen

the bluest sky that you could make from scratch

if you look there
across the way
you’ll see an apartment complex
and on that third story there
in the window
is a man sitting exhausted
at a computer screen
crunching numbers
his eyes swollen and red
his fingers moving like legs
on a thirty day hike to survive
do you see him?
or is he an invisible ship
crashing onto your shallow shore?

he is looking for the right algorithm
he is putting pennies into the machine
hoping that the copper can form pipes
pipes that can send water
where water is needed

he is ticking away
like a time bomb
he just moves on
to the next sentence
and you are so pleased with yourself
congressional medal of honor
for the way you sat at that window
waiting for life to come to you
shrink wrapped
bubble wrapped
preserved on ice
but never fresh
never raw
never wriggling in your soft hands
just served on a silver platter
that someone else made



Author: brice maiurro

Denver poet. Author of Stupid Flowers, out now through Punch Drunk Press.


  1. “THE BLUEST SKY THAT YOU COULD MAKE FROM SCRATCH.” leaves this follower alienated– from what I do not know. Had to read it twice to make sure; alienation affirmed & have decided your style is most amazing, actually astonishing & unique…

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