it doesn't have to be good
it doesn't have to be there
it has to be perfect
it has to be here
I march in a straight line and imagine myself dancing
I save in a mason jar and imagine myself spending
the silver rolling out of my hands into the spotlight
I sit at the bus stop and imagine myself running
suit top comes off, shoes come off, briefcase spills open in the wind
I don't even own a briefcase
I am the briefcase
I want everyone to read my papers
I keep them under lock and key
it has to be numbered
it has to be divided and tabbed
I brush my hair and ponytail it
imagining it dyed blue and horse-wild
I think I'm in the west but my lap and folded hands are in the east
port is starboard
the ship is in a museum, curated
smash its hull with a red fire extinguisher
read me
get arrested.
when the ship is rebuilt from new wood under the same name, 
with the same birth certificate
is it still the same ship?
what do I fear more:
death
or rebirth

[Featured Image: a firefighting aircraft. Creative Commons license]