A Blue Day Beckons

Poetry doesn't always come to me
in paragraph form.

Feet drop
in heartbeats
of cats poking at the bins under the moonlit lamplight.

They'll sniff
and prod
and brush up against my popsicle-stick house,
leaving fur embedded in my skin.

Sometimes I scratch until my eyes are raw and my nails have a new layer of dust at their tips.

Sometimes the eyelash falls to the ground
unnoticed
and a wish passes by in a whimsy.

The voice in my head
keeps up a constant narration,
and sometimes she's more eloquent,
and cotton candy eyes glisten
as she seduces in my ear,
whispers giggles and laps at my leash leading
me to wonderland.

And every now and then she plucks at a dandelion daydream,
yellow petal puffed up on the wind,
and plants it on my cheek with a kiss,
where it falls to my tongue and I swallow it
and it sails to Spica's sapphire shore
and I dance on clouds that singe my toes sending shocks through my neurons.

I touch the light with my fingertips
and the child's play painting
glistens with laughter from a cackling sun.