You could wake up believing in chocolate chip trees
and a hip hop god who directs
your sheets to rap in the morning. Another day
you might wake as a pimple—
bloated, unwanted, ugly as pus—
and feel everyone rush to cream you away.
The sky might aim its crows at your head
or vicious squirrels at your neck.
Thoughts that glow in the dark and
reproduce, like corn popping.
Dishes that gossip to sinks.
It’s all in the dressing you mix in the salad and
how you choose to regard the tomato:
red from the sun and life on the vine, or
awaiting the knife on the cutting board.