I have Magoo eyes, narrow slits
carved through bone that filter distractions
and see to the future.

When tapped with a toothbrush
my broken teeth ring with glockenspiel notes,
a harmonious mantra that ushers in peace.

Air enters my lungs like candle wax dripping
and forming a pool, exits by telling a story
of sunset, it’s finger-crossed promise to return.

During periods of darkness I sleep
with an old homeless woman, she whispers
she’s willing but I am unable.

Her snaggletoothed dog is named Heavenly Father.
He growls at intruders, then lies down between us
to keep us both warm.