I want to say I've split the brick
and stepped clean through the wall
of my bedroom to land on the strip
of grass, the city park, in the side
walk in short steps to see the yellow
toasted topsides of the clouds
too buttery to be marshmallows
without tripping
on lips in the pavement
and think about the way
home from so much Friday dream work
and think about the way
chicks must feel
when the lights come on in the hen house
and bang their rays against the shells
and the yolks.
I can imagine they
can't think
about anything besides pancakes
and syrup and sticky vinyl benches
and maybe a smoke or two
at the diner. I better call
my boy and make sure
he's still up for some Saturday brunch
because I mean, really,
you could cup your hand and dip it
in the air and taste
the kind of satisfaction
so often reserved for the carelessness
of being a popcorn fed bird
in the middle of a Central Park June.
