toy boats

on the horizon is a bathtub full of hair.
let's take the scavenger hunt home. i find
a shoe & you find a portal. in the newspaper
there is an article about drones. they are
now delivering everyone a shopping bag
full of toothpicks & radios. do they know
something we don't? i prefer to know
less about what is coming. lakes will swell
& lakes will swallow & i'll still be here
with a rubber duck & a spoon. in the city
i parked bad & pretended not to get a ticket.
the ticket read, "i am so sorry, i am trying
to be an animal." i tried to find the parking cop
but he was not anywhere to be found. 
instead, the wind blew harsh & the roof pigeons 
were huddled on an awning. i think sometimes
about plucking one from the "wild" &
bringing them home. sometimes i too feel like
i was domesticated just to be sat outside where
the nights are heavy & everyone is hungry. 
i don't take baths. not really. my mom always has.
when it comes to letting the lightning down
all i can think about is, "who will drive the boat?"
the boat of course is plastic. a toy. whirlpool bound.
still, i am holding a fake steering wheel 
& pronouncing that it is time to hide. time to
barricade the sun. in the tub, i used to always
find sharks as a kid. their fins circled & then submerged.
i learned to hold my breath. to sit inside
my father. his body, a lighthouse. his hands,
like toy boats. i call the coast guard. they are
a.i. automated now. you can ask a thousand questions
& they will just respond, "we will be there soon."
for my whole life "soon" has lost its gills.
they never arrive. my father reaches in the waterfall. 
a ghost puts on his good hat & walks past
the house for the hundredth time. 
the bath i draw has whirlpools. i get in anyway.
let them suck me like a boba pearl up a fat straw.
someone's mouth is on the other side.
please tell me your mouth is on
the other side.