I have dreamed of planning a heist.
I know it’s crazy, but it’s true.
We could walk in like the cool
guys in the movies do. We’d nail
the job, and steal the guard’s jacket,
and leave the vault an empty space.
Or we could fly to outer space.
Tell NASA our plan and make haste
to get a puffy white jacket,
pants, and mask so we’d be true
to the astronaut look. I’d bite my nails
as we fly and the air turns cool.
I think a bike could make us cool
while we cruise open space.
And if a tire grabs a nail,
we’d stop to ask the diner host,
“Know where we can find a True
Value?” Riders in leather jackets.
I couldn’t wear a straight jacket.
Shrinks keep their rooms too cool.
Although I’d be insane, true,
I wouldn’t notice all that space.
I’d walk around, without hope,
my head echoing, pounding nails.
I had a dream about a nail
driven through a man’s brown jacket,
among the almost holy of holies,
standing at attention in the cool
breeze with no purpose but to fill space,
no on knowing what is true.
I’m not sure what I truly
want. A home, held by nails.
The family room, with lots of space
for our kids. But a yellow jacket
stings the baby, whose hands turn cool.
Forehead–a fever burning hot.
I see true love in a tuxedo jacket.
My manicured nails–losing my cool,
and not a space from here to heaven.