A picnic table floats by,
no ants, no red-checkered cloth,
just a bald man carving teacups
out of soap bubbles. He whispers
recipes for upside-down soufflés
to the pigeons strumming ukuleles.
My neighbor\'s dog sprouted wings,
taking lessons from a retired
drum major who now counsels clouds
on soft landings and mid-air pirouettes.
We all applauded when the mailman cha-cha\'d
through the hedge, leaving paper cuts
on the geraniums but no one seemed to mind.
A dirigible disguised as a tomato
settled in the garden, reciting
love letters from compost piles.
One said, \"Dance in the raincoat
of a tangerine dream,\" and who could argue
with such impeccable logic?
Night fell sideways that day,
and the moon unzipped itself,
spilling a mixed tape of lullabies
stitched together by forgotten whispers.
We held our breaths, paper birds
caught in a cyclone of nostalgia.
Tomorrow, they\'ll ask us why we hang
our shoes on telephone wires,
why we play hopscotch on ceilings,
why we read grocery lists like epic poems.
And we\'ll wink, pocketing stardust
for a rainy day that\'s already here.