Blown away.

Above me- Chantilly lace clouds-
I breathe in the wispy fibreless air,
and blow cinnamon kisses,
puffs of song upon song.
I have found another identity-
I crawl along the street,
no one notices me-
I enter through the sliding doors
and raise myself on my hind legs
as the shock of sharp white light
illuminates my basket brain-
for all to see
but still no one notices.
I exit , trot down alleys and lanes
and fill my house with wooden plates
rubbed with olive oil.
This suburban streetlamp knows no darkness
as the timer switches distinctly from sweetness to stench.
A mother, oblivious to her son’s claim to adulthood,
puts garlic between my toes
and bakes me in her oven.
I am resurrected and slip away
to hide behind a deaf leaf.
Alone, I digest bread crumbs
and shit on a wayward piece of cardboard
wedged between the mountain and the valley.
If I lived here I would never walk away,
I’d sink, not float,
like those French clouds,
obscuring my view
like a shroud,
I pull them over me
and am no longer naked
but covered in mortal misty coolness.
More kisses interrupt
my imaginings
and I am blown away like powder on the breeze.