The Things You Tell Strangers i’m addicted to muscle relaxers - see i’ve got a handful of prozacs and zolofts in my pocket right now, or i just stabbed my boyfriend who came home with lipstick on his collar and a mouth dripping with rum, or i steal jewelery, earrings and watches from the people i babysit for and pawn them down the street, or i’m here illegally living in an abandoned basement, and i’m afraid i’ll get caught, or i prance around in my wife’s panties on tuesdays when she’s at tupperware parties - or i’m settling i know he’s not the one- at least that’s what i told the taxi driver… the solitary bird who sits beyond my window pane craning his neck out of a wiry nest as if i were actually important and my voice carried some real weight i confess to him the bird preens himself and my words settle between black plumes, his shining blue chest puffed up with air, he won’t tell a soul, i think no one would believe that screechy grackle anyway he takes off, disrupting twigs with his claws, and he lands far away in the blue sky on a telephone wire, between two sparrows, he chirps creating a small dip in the line the way i felt that day on the street- the taxi’s exhaust in my face its tires screeching away leaving me behind Meredith Jones. If you've any comments on this poem, Meredith Jones would be pleased to hear them.