Look Out There

Look out there: people are in moods I can't fathom. Purple
mountains majestically appear jaundiced and caper-dotted.
In a matter of moments the sun loses its lemon hue,
children dance not on the grass but on styrofoam plazas.
There is nothing better than the bitter taste of Pepsi
as the red sky goes into a seizure, making things appear
closer than they are and then just as suddenly Milk Cow Blues
comes on the radio. I have a dollar but it's muddy. Think of me
as I tip the bowl of cherries into the water, the oily, rusty
water of yore. Take my hand now, let's pulverize the map
and make a bad thing good, maybe with sprinkles,
maybe with bedazzlement, maybe with non-toxic, nonstick,
non-binding grace. We'll get good at it right before we flee.