Dreaming of Chilaquiles

Dreaming of chilaquiles and yellow beer
while my dusty eyes age at twice the speed.
My spine cracks as I twist in my sheets, rocking me away from my heated slumber,
only to find yesterday’s feet crumbs still asleep at the foot of my bed.

A motorway parades just over my hill line where
rubber and rock are beat into fine particles that settle deafly all around me.
There are boogers on my baseboards that carry hair that isn’t mine and
my toenails, uneven and honest, slowly shred my blankets into sad chaotic strings.

The dirt on my shoes is out of season.
It’s becoming more of an ornament by the minute – I’m afraid I forget where it came from.
I want to be a pack mule of my own design, trudging through somewhere quiet
only aware of my aloneness when I stop to listen.