simple like saturdays
before it’s mowing lawns in tennis shoes
and a quick snack then hinge-fixing before noon:
 
in a fever dream
i thought odd things
like surfing alligators
up the moat to your home.
 
and every sign on the freeway,
every letter on every building,
had been replaced by my own thoughts.
i saw a billboard in bunker hill
that read “i want to eat fourth-meal with you”.
 
i sit in the arts district
whispering ‘petaluma’ ‘petaluma’-
trying to find words that sing
as the sparks do in your name.
 
the gliding, hungry fashion chix
walk by in a cloud of camel blues
and one with a murmuring radio
does what’s what and turns it up:
 
but the disc jockey is me
and for once my voice sounds clean
as i say “all my favorite songs are about you”
and then i
spin the hits-
 
the fog it lifts,
i’m doing the twist!
and you’re smiling at me,
or about to.