In Which The Poet Totally Regrets Dreaming

After an hour of twirling
the bullet-holed ceiling around
my finger, I realized the satellites
sarcastically told me I was nowhere.
I ran out of the cafe to find the city
folded into a paper bird and everyone
was a scratched lottery ticket flake,
soaking in staid puddles of old snow.
My ex yelled at me for drinking
all of the juice and I forgot to pay
the bill. I flashed my teeth like a fervent
bison and waited for the bus
as a pile of leaves, losing a bit
more of myself as new cars passed.

-C.S. Henderson