Dear P. XXI

When you wake, your feet will be longer.

You will be interested in the moles and

the dark holes in the pumpkin’s face.

You will point and laugh at the citrus

comedy of its body. You will scream

when I take a rake away, stamp your heels

as if removing snow. No, no, no, no.

I am afraid of your moods, your streaks

I cannot stack. I am afraid of the next

minute, the atomic equivalent of death.

I approach you as I do a cigarette butt

at the park. I am suspicious of you, handle

you by the burnt-out bits, the side

untouched by your sucking lips.