There's a reason
you're encouraged
to play house,
buy fictional
groceries, do
fake chores,
say bogus grace
in your three-
quarter-size kitchen—
God forbid
you should
ever find out
where it is
you really live:
in your mind,
which is not some
cramped little piss-and-shit
cockroach condo,
or a spooky
old neighborhood
mansion that’s caving-in
or even
a tax-funded Walt Disney
castle made of stars.
The real place
is actually
the little red race car
that's always
double parked,
outside of those buildings
with its doors locked,
and its engine running,
and its key stuck—in the ignition.
