Specials.

We all dreaming.
The old man at the park sits still and is
covered in pigeons until they take flight
pulling him up little claws in his overcoat.

My declawed cats thump their tails all day
on the window sill and drool plate-eyed over
the finch’s nest until every little bird is dead.

Tiny kids on the playground dream of being fire

men and astronauts, they pull up their hoods
and lace their shoes to orbit the burning moon.

And I feel the same when I dream of Hemingway

see Amelia Earhart over the Atlantic or hallucinate
on the beach about banging Ryan Gosling. Happy-
hour is six to seven.