Bring on those eight hour days
that I will gladly sleep away
under the shade of brick and shingle,
when I'm hungry I'll venture out
to hunt my slumbering inanimate prey
designed to sate my appetite,
then return to the scent of trees,
flowers, cars and man,
a soft cushion
blown through thin wire,
awaiting the clumsy flight
of a domesticated insect
or the rumble of busy ignorant feet,
the world of dreams flows much easier
tastes much better,
when I am master and interloper the same,
when I step on legs and arms
stretching out
dizzily, haphazardly and
breath fire into the night.
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