You're Not Serious?

Mike woke me from a dream where
the baby I'd forgotten in the car turns
into a kitten. Baby or kitten peed
on the car floor where I'd left a borrowed
& signed book. I have a difficult time
parking – where's the brake? – clutch
the kitten tightly as I follow the clerk into
the store, a dreamscape that lingers
through the morning, does the dream
set the tone for my day? The sunlight
pours a golden pool on the ocean
under blue & white cloud & dark
cloud, the mynah chides, our cat sleeps
in Mike's chair. The baby has short dark
hair & wears a blue- & white-striped
T-shirt, a sagging diaper. She suffers
no distress, is happy to see me. Black
kitten, silky handful, taut sinews of
cling. Pictures are everything: the
forgotten baby's head appears in my rear
view mirror, & my guilt is short lived
because Look: the baby is fine, will
likely grow up to be a drinks industry
professional, work in hostel/bar Almacén
in Cafayate where the Internet
password is sapopanza (sapo in Spanish
means toad, 5 or 6 at a time spend
the day in a pool of rainwater at the
bottom of Ginny's pool. I would need
to stay awake all night to see how
they climb the vertical walls to
escape, they must, because I've never
seen a dead one, unless a carancho
dives down to carry it off.) Why replace
a toilet? Is it cracked or merely stained?
In Tucumán I found myself locked in
a bathroom because I didn't know
to ask the proprietor for the door
handle, how the people stared when I
emerged, the woman who had been
screaming Help! ¡Ayudame! Stupid
tourist. Even Mike was confused. The
ocean is silver, with white streaks, birds
streak past the picture window. What
makes a poem is shape, surprises
that make the heart lurch, words that
make a picture, the pool of pee where
the book lay, a corn-colored paperback
book in a shallow puddle of pee, the
shape of the puddle on the car floor
mats, its fractal repeats. I didn't ask
to borrow the book. How will I explain
to Debbie or Jane whose friendship
I take for granted. The author had
signed the book, "To my dear friend
Jane," now pulp of various colors,
the poems merged into fibrous
soup with a pungent odor, the baby's
bottom sporting an angry rash. Had
she not shapeshifted to a kitten I
would have removed the diaper &
rinsed her clean, carried her bare
into the store to buy the toilet, the utility
of which escapes her. It's important
to hold tight to a cat in a public
place lest it escape & become
lost, like Flora's cat that broke loose
on the way to the vet to be micro-
chipped so that if he were lost &
found, he could be returned to his
grieving owner. He never returned
or was found, which proved that the
nameless yellow cat that shows up
& fights with our black & white cat
wasn't Flora's cat after all: Nameless
occasionally still comes around.