yogurt swim lessons

i want to be a little yogurt culture 
in your big tub at the back of the fridge.
maybe they write poetry in 
their goop. i do not take enough time
to talk to the bugs. we have so many spiders
there days & i mostly ignore them. you ask me
how i am doing & all i can manage
is that my head feels full of wool.
sometimes i open the day like a can
of baked beans. i eat them with
a plastic fork. enjoy none of the process.
i am at least there aren't any bombs here. i am
at least there is a mailbox to open
& dispose of junk mail. i drive my car with the holes
in the tires. is it too much to ask
to have a day without grease? probably. i know
i am entitled. i know i have too many 
mushy dreams. i wash
my hands more than i need to. maybe i would
not be a good yogurt culture. afterall,
we usually let the yogurt go bad & end up
having to feed it to the chickens. 
i know i would not be talented 
in decomposition. i am resistant to most
forms of exhale. i wake up on the roof 
where the hawks are plotting a new government.
i tell them, "please go for it."
they think i'm being too eager & they think
i might be a spy. that's fair. i might be. 
but you know we could have a nice life
in the yogurt. i could buy you a yogurt house
& we could backstroke slow & easy.
pretend the fridge light is our brief sun. 
in the dark tell each other stories. voices like
spilled marbles. my fantasies are getting
smaller & smaller with age. i do not know
what is smaller than a yogurt culture
but i am sure i will find it & it will be terrible. 
i eat yogurt by the front windows. 
watch the cars go by in the dark. their headlights
like ice cream scoopers. i stay up too late.
i go to the yogurt in my head. lay there
until there is no more day to spend.