Those borderless flowing Saturday
mornings, slowly drowning
my capacity to imagine
a faraway
world where eggs
and milk are hard to get.
Touch another star, why don't they?
Like he can;
just
shut up
and eat that
fire flower, or whatever.
Again and again, I bust my head
against bricks, see if
I can
snort up the dust, call it
a balanced
breakfast.
