Live lonely or die

I think of us all like flames pacing our apartments
scowling mica into our mirrors

naked, sick of all fashion
waiting for dandelions to sprout
from between the floorboards;
something fertile to make our cells bearable,
since we so seldom feel secure enough
to bless with kindness at each other's doors.

Don't you wish we were kicking a yellow
rubber ball back and forth across a big front yard
freshly cut grass sticking to our bare feet
the smell of life's blood enveloping us

waiting to hear a voice from a huge musical kitchen
call us in for dinner? And that we all had the same parents,
gentle people with plenty of time to laugh over a big meal?