I want to be someone else.
No, something else.
A big-eyed owl with wet silver wings
and talons that can pluck out an eye.
I want to nest up in the rafters
of that Deep Deuce jazz club,
the one that opens late and closes early.
I want to hoot when the horns move me,
and screech when I'm feeling the swing.
And, when I'm flying low with a contact high
and spy the Monday morning mouse,
I want to whisper,
"You've slept a dozen deaths.
Welcome to the resurrection."