What Will We Do This Morning

Drink sunlight from a cup,
rock a banana boat toward the table’s horizon,
write to a pirate on parchment toast.
Trains will journey through tunnels, over bridges;
their wheels chugging through places I’ve never been,
but which you travel to every day.

Outside the front yard, or perhaps a primordial forest
where dinosaurs dream and ancient turtles lumber
under deciduous trees in the hazy summer air.
The traffic’s ambient roar is a saber-toothed tiger
springing to catch the neighbor’s lawn ornaments.

What will we do this morning?
Laundry, dishes, phone calls, bills, shopping —
The wind catches my list, and it’s gone,
a butterfly in migration.