In the bed beneath the window
there lay a broken sparrow.

Me and an x-classmate
whose face I couldn’t place
propped against the parlor wall,
me gasping air, him catching smoke.

“She was some screwed-up chick
What was with her?”

My vague dislike now focused
What is rareness to the rude?
shimmer to the sightless?
I remembered…

An elegant rummage sale waif
in ostrich feather boa, net stockings
and red high top sneakers,
joyous pops of color in the hallway.
How they mocked and labeled
freak, flake, slut, and Rainbow Jayne.

Innocently pretentious
in whispers on the phone,
of Beat poets and the Tao
LSD, the Velvet Underground.
In breathy confidence,
“Remember, dear David
no rules, just society dreaming.”
and “I’m fighting the parasite.”

How can they hope to fit?
when school years end
Where do the misfits go?
we simply lose touch.

Tales of breakdown,
transience, homelessness.
Seemingly asleep by the lake
this note at her side,
“Today is a good day to die,
goodbye”

“What was with her?”
I asked in contempt.

She was like that sparrow
who crashed in a window
while aiming for sky.

07/27/2005

Author's Note: When we were in the ninth grade, she told me to listen to Dylan and Jean Shepherd and to watch Dr. Shock, so I did.

Posted on 07/27/2005
Copyright © 2026 David Hill