The weather has never looked better than where you are right now,
standing tall on your perch---
a floating table in the middle of a sweet honey dew lightning bolt---
singing to a fine-looking British pelican,
who has never looked finer than where you are today.
In other words….
I like your plaid bow tie,
and I like your boat shoes,
which are pink like all of my peculiar pink plants covered in things like
rhymes and schemes and yes, some dead dreams.
The dreams were killed by the bear, who was friends with the British pelican,
and they’re dead like
my raindrop eyes
and my crunchy hands,
so strong they can murder the weather and still be home by dinner and then just
die on a dinner plate given to the Queen of Corsica---
although she is only queen when the island is wrapped in blue---
because this queen detests my pink plants.
P.S. The leftovers are underneath the kitchen sink,
and I was waiting all night for the weather to roll onto its belly for me so that I could scratch it,
because I really miss the dog I never had who died when I was four.
(And don’t forget to say “please” and “thank you.”)