The Screaming Sheep

I’m inspired to do cartwheels,
a pale, clothed, tractor tire.
I’m ready to paint this Mayberry town!
Splash it with buckets of pink and royal blue
and finger paint it red that I stole from the fiery South.

I’m ready to hire a whistleblower
and let him record my full thought and mood on tape.
The garden shall grow in great bloom, like stiff, petaled children
and I’ll kick off their heads and let them slump whenever

I’m mad, and thus motherhood eludes me with my permission.
I’m doing headstands now and the blue sky is prior.
How I stand in reversal like a metal mailbox
taking messages in between my ankles,
and I bid the mailman a “Bon Voyage!”