Crush it like a powder and
use it in the paint.
Spread it on the streets,
in the sheets, in the chapel where
it will be the infrequent rain
of a leaky roof.

Or toss it up onto the roof
while you wait with open hands
for it to roll back down again.
Give it a name. After a saint.
After a Fate. After a bare
corner of my street.

Walk it down the street
like a dog that woofs
at every duck. Take care
that you feed it and
wash it and wait
as it ****** in the rain.

Wake up and do it all again.
Let it pull off all your sheets
in the night and finger-paint
your walls and goof
off at the table and
insult your great-aunt's hair,

But let no one else dare
scold it but you. Chain
it to a pole by the tire and,
as you cross each street,
glance back for proof
no one's chipped the paint.

Imagine it is the quaint
house with curved iron chairs
and the red red roof
from the catalogue in Spain.
Imagine it is your old street,
its cricket-chorus marching band,

Your mother's "it ain't so bad" refrain
sung like a prayer. Your old street
seen from the roof, the moon in your hand.