Stuff

Those darling clouds
make my clothes dank. Bad weather
erodes sweet wisps of expensive scents.
Tuning into something redolent and wise
like a radio made of red candy. Blank
stares in the hood. My receiving mechanism
has gone all haywire, I'll have to bang it.
The reading lamp is coded with instructions
to concentrate on something solid and supreme
like a cold shower in the heat or that new jar
of peanut butter with the oil on top in the cupboard.
You've got a day to fill with all kinds of radical stuff.
Do you know what I mean about celebration?
And then remarkable things start to happen:
friends are kind, I find my old favorite pen, and
the people laughing in the courtyard finally go to bed.