Dear P. XXI
When you wake, your feet will be longer.
You will be interested in the moles and
the dark holes in the pumpkin’s face.
You will point and laugh at the citrus
comedy of its body. You will scream
when I take a rake away, stamp your heels
as if removing snow. No, no, no, no.
I am afraid of your moods, your streaks
I cannot stack. I am afraid of the next
minute, the atomic equivalent of death.
I approach you as I do a cigarette butt
at the park. I am suspicious of you, handle
you by the burnt-out bits, the side
untouched by your sucking lips.