Don't We All?

Delicate monster, hum in French.
I am resigned to the cliff shot
where the rabbit treads air
for what seems long enough to write
a text. There is no excuse for doom,
not in this instance with the sun
out of my mind with weather. I am
riddled with pauses, clean as can be.
Low and behold, wind chimes
look mild to the symphony of clangs
right outside my life. All I have to do
is lift myself up and suddenly
I sprout these gorgeous silver-feathered
wings. Like that would ever happen.
Like I give a fuck about flying, or wings. I am
dolled up like one of those dolls
in heritage workwear. A chambray monkey.
Okay, motion to the choir, I'm going
out for a stroll, I want the soundtrack
of a dozen voices singing me down Court Street.