Wings

Wings
I have wings.
I dream with them
The smog.
Dream them into
Escape; the stores,
The busses, the coffee shops.
The pavement reads me as
I slitter finger tips On it,
Hovering.

Then I collect
My whishes
Into a small vessel,
Too often emptying it
To the green garbage can
In the back yard. Closing
The lid shut
So that the stanch
Wont knock me down,
To the ground.
I’d like to believe

That they await
For someone else
With a little less
Wings and
Much stronger hands.