In My Matchbox

In my matchbox we eat wax crayons and cut our clothes out of the ad mags. There is a beautiful beagle up for adoption covering my left breast, and an as good as new automobile, barely been used, price negotiable, on my sleeve. In my matchbox everyone knows the words to La Vie En Rose and nobody goes to work on a rainy morning.
All words are poetry and all toes curl inside the warmth of striped socks. Sometimes we stay awake so the moon won't be alone and sometimes we stay awake because we can.
In my matchbox pop is not a culture, or a song, or an art, or the way the weasel went. In my matchbox don't always have to kick a football, and girls are not waiting to be swept off their feet by Prince Charming.
In my matchbox, the rotten apples eat gunpowder and all seven seas are comfortable. We have vegetable patches to grow gourd and berries and peonies and in our spare time we swing on fairy lights. Shopping lists are written on postcards and epics on post it's. We paint with our fingers and wrap gifts in Turkish carpets.
In my matchbox I am happy, in my matchbox I am also alone.
Come home to my matchbox.