I want to make bread of my stomach (hungry one).
It has been 40 long years in the desert, and it hasn’t rained manna once.
I have been the sand, and you have been the wind; shaping me in to dunes.

Our puddle has become an ocean.
I want to make umbrellas of my arms.
Your arms are kites.
There is a rain cloud between us.

I want to make a train of my sidewalk.
I will ride it to my neighbor’s house.
If I can lay the track correctly, I will ride it to Brooklyn, and visit you.
If I cannot lay the track correctly, I will hitch hike, and visit you.
(I have strong thumbs.)

I want to paint my hands green.
Sometimes I lose track of them, and forget what they are doing.
Sometimes, I want to call you. Some days, my phone is a gun.

You promised me 50 kisses once.
Please write me a gift certificate, so I can find somewhere to spend them.

If I was a store, I would sell funny birthday cards, with monkeys on them.
I would be next to a train station, so that people could bring gifts from me to the people they were visiting.
I would give them all the friends and family discount.
I would have a guestbook at the register, but I would never call any of them.

If you were a store, I would make myself in to bread, and sit on your shelves.
Then, I could say, “Today, I was part of 7 families’ breakfasts.”
I would not make my hands in to bread though, because they are green.
And I would not my make mouth in to bread, in case I decide to call you.

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