City of Hangover Sundays
You hear whistling from underground.
Mannequins, left outside
fuzz with mold.
The tombstones are soap.
In-between, inflatable sheep graze
as a copse of toddlers in pajamas
pick the sheep up and put them down.
Their laughter is the wind.
On the sidewalk,
glass snails leave smears of Vaseline.
You're not certain
if you're lonely.