She fell like wet sand on the porch swing;
dogs and babies strollered past her brazen, bare-faced
sleep. But she was busy meeting a man with a mustache
bobbing over the O of his mouth disclosing something vital,
but indiscernible. And quick as could be, he became a bear
with a piece of chalk. Holding her snug around the shoulders,
they drew lines connecting stars in Night's sky: Big Dipper,
Orion, and new constellations he designed. This until,
with another swift reversal, he was incarcerated in a tank top
and shoulder-to-wrist tattoos of blue flames and mermaids.
He had yet another mustache, suspicious thing, though his head
was extraordinarily bald. And he said, It is strange to keep meeting
this way. She turned on her smile and blushed without knowing why.
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