bounce house

take your shoes off before
you get in my mouth.
we are on the roof without umbrellas
& there is a wet dog running across the sky.
i buy a pocket knife 
with the sole intention of saying
it was an accident. the house keeps
you jumping. you decide
to set higher & higher goals.
touch the ceiling & leave handprints.
i call a repair man in the middle
of the night & a flock of hissing cockroaches
arrive with a toolbox. it is our birthday.
the bounce house is for us. there is a cake
with someone else's name written
on the face. 
sometimes i want kids desperately.
like, i feel a space where our children
would live like voles beneath
the soil. the roots that, when removed,
always resemble the hair of my grandmother,
ragged & tangled near the end.
i bounce. feel my socks against
the vinyl. smooth. a carnival man 
peers in the window. we could sleep in here.
we could listen to the groan
of the air machine. i know tomorrow
it will be my birthday too. dog years. 
dog teeth. tearing the meat
from a street chicken bone. how do
you survive the pressure to smile?
grey balloons fill the sky. i call you
& you do not pick up. the number
leads nowhere. you get out of my mouth
& leave with a little party hat on.
we never talk again but i still
wonder about you.