The Starling

If my heart was a bird it would be a starling

Pecking for spent fries in the dust under a picnic bench

In front of the McDonald’s in Modesto.

If my heart was a sound it would be the last echo of a rumor Whispered silently about an unspoken rule.

If my heart was a car it’d be parked in a mirage garage.

If my heart was a body of water you’d be able to see

The fathomless murk,

The benthic chasms,

The world of ink.

My dark real estate.

And if my heart was a room

There would be a small window

Looking out over the fjords.

In the center of the room would be a table.

On the center of the table would be a jar.

In the jar would be some pennies.

That is, if my heart was a room.

But my heart is not a room.

Or a sound.

Or a bird.

My heart is none of those things.

It’s just a heart

Smelling like everyone’s

Of toast.

And tarnished copper.

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