He's turning her pictures to the wall.
A gesture to show that she's fallen from grace.
She's no longer welcome at home.

Bluebirds in the dark,
look proud for no reason at all.
And are ignored, most of the time.
Like she was hiding, under the table,
listening to the clocks.
That chime each one second,
off from the others.

He's telling us stories again,
about men blown into rabbit holes by bombs.
We're holding each other's hands.
He's a shadow in a chair at night,
he rattles and he snores.

Like a broken down old engine with the screws all undone.

Bluebirds in the dark,
look proud for no reason at all.
And are ignored, most of the time.
Like she was hiding, under the table,
listening to the clocks.
That chime each one second,
off from the others.

She sees the pictures turned
and looks at me under the table still,
and winks before she goes.
Winks before she goes.

I saw her with her long hair,
on the front of the paper,
with her peace sign and her sandals.
I heard he threw the paper away