when i wake up
i see spider monkeys wrestling on my ceiling
with bunches of golden hay in their furry hands.
as they pull themselves together
and stop tearing apart at the yellow
curly dry grass
they begin to weave webs
and add old trojan wrappers
and movie ticket stubs
and leftover sushi
to their tangled mess.
as i look closer at these mad monkeys
i make out chunks of golden greek curls,
soft and lifeless.
and that becomes my only proof
that you were ever real,
that i had a good night,
that i had a delicious meal.