by Trista Hurley-Waxali

Many times I daydream of getting my own monkey,
maybe even a magic carpet too.
I would first hover over the Golden Gate Bridge in the early afternoon,
to scream down the mistakes I’ve made
over the years.

People pulling over to watch, some honking to stop
the crazed woman on the imported Persian rug.
News crews collect to show off “the lunatic in the sky”
featuring a tipsy profile picture and a
live show of my oval mouth bantering off warnings.

The police copters would demand me to land,
to take my business elsewhere.
I flip them off with an upward gesture, leading to a full pursuit.
Dodging between skyscrapers in the district, office workers jump out of chairs
and are pressed on windows like toddlers.
The types who would have bitten the red apple.

When the coast is clear I would land near a bakery
with big smiles from the chef.
Likely from the trust I had
in something made from silk.
And at that point I will lean in and ask,
“I’ll now take that big piece of pie.”

This poem was submitted as part of our communal poetry project, voces (voices) of the people (poets). If you’d like to contribute, please review the link, and send your poem to betweenfigandyork@gmail.com