I woke up like a skipjack—
a soft patina across the brain.
I peeled back the hum
and found something ugly.
The pancake woman smiled
with too many teeth.
What a place to be—
this canister of blue and white,
bubbles threading the crust
of mud and grass and gone things.
Grab your furry tabby
and name it Little China.
Dig a hole and tell me what you find.
More nothing.
Potholes the size of moons.
We bounce like puppies
still learning to land.
Lick your hand and tell me
if you remember the taste.