Stardust

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.