The dead baby bird "actually happened." I think I only picked it up because I saw a poem. Now, in a spot very near where the bird died there's a collection of dog shit. For three days now. I figure, I clean up dead baby bird, someone else cleans up dog shit. He's the neighbors, this dog, I know it's him. He swaggers over and pokes his nose around til he finds a good spot. Three days. No one seems to think maybe I could be the one to scoop it up? I've considered it, but there's no poem in dog shit. I simply won't. A matter of poetic principle. The dead baby bird on the other hand was blue and soft and tiny black beads of eyes I threw in the proper refuse receptacle for the sake of poetry.