Ten-Minute Mutiny

In my dreams I used to buy Oreos with spit,
the clerks falling over their registers
to gather the precious goop.
I'd tip with eye mucus
to a whiteout of thanks
and stroll out into guaranteed sunshine.
Lately the clerks have turned away
and are staring in colour
at a car going by in the distance,
dandruffed in confetti.
They cheer
like kids at a clown;
I sit uphill on the grass, craving cookies,
fingering for change. Finding none,
I break daisy necks. I loop
stems round the barrel of a gun,
licking to seal.