I need to mature as a person.
So I'm re-organizing my books, filing knack-knackes

buttons, glue sticks, hearts, 
into clear carefully labeled jars.

I must turn on the facette only when my hands are dirty.
I must whind each loose ribbon around my index finger, the tips bursting red. 

I must push-pin everything into place. 
Here is outerspace

salvaged from the dumpster
behind Chicken Head Roastarrie.


all these voices from another room. I said ah huh ah huh


You must take the moon back, I said to the day shift worker on the phone.
He said, We don't refund or do exchanges.

Cooks could be heard through the phone  background yelling about the time lapse of unclaimed thighs.
The pick up window was larger than average to allow
 I could hear him breathing so I continued,
The moon, I swear, looks at me like a painting whose woman's eyes follow you.

He said, Hold on. That he'd get the manager.
I decided after 45 minutes no one was coming to the phone.

I continued listening to the busy evening unfold, a little boy screaming,
Mommy's mean because I can't have another icecream.

Then the phone reciever was put back. 
I sat in my livingroom thinking about the silence.

I think I'm okay with exploding.