let the trumpet moo

For years
polar bears have been planning
to put into a shredder
the mustache of a fingerless
trumpeter. I am late,
and the streetcar has left the stop.
A soiled band-aid covers the sun,
but a huge plate of scrambled eggs
must remember Akutagawa at Woodstock
and my absence on the banks of the Limpopo
the day when zebras went postal.
A man with a pillow is kissing
a cow wearing a top hat. It sounds
like a pear stuffed with broken
smartphones or a snake that has
met a toothbrush.