Wheaton-Prose Poem

I found a wound ribbon stapled to a guardrail beside a small ditch I used as a wishing well. I wished hard, plucked a quarter into the stream and got nothing. Perhaps I should have left a gift; maybe money means nothing to a small ditch wishing well. I skipped down passed the ditch flanked by dirty bottle caps and smoke butts and found a lone rabbit cage in the middle of the woods. I refused to look inside, afraid of what might still be in there. I imagined a severed human head. Past the head-harboring cage was a greenhouse which reminded me of my mother and of a man I wanted to take as my lover. I found mushrooms, big, vulgar and explosive mushrooms with caps like large cock heads and stems like thick doors—I took a picture. A man in a business suit hung himself upside down on his lunch break; he stained his tie but otherwise looked appropriate enough for work. He told me he needed some time to clear his head, to reprogram and recollect himself. I watched his tongue twitch then rest just a smidgen outside of his mouth. His eyes stared forward forever entranced by an eternal Excel spreadsheet. I've got nothing against desk jobs. I just want to be loved.