Medium Rare

Poets are perceptive
little boogers,
who the hell knows why?
Somedays it’s a gift,
other’s a curse.
We see the world spinning
on a high top tennis shoe,
laces untied and slouching,
hanging like bangs
in the face of a star, or
skewered on an axis,
slow roasting ‘round the sun.
You say that’s not reality,
there’s scientific evidence
to refute this fantastical claim,
but then,
you’re not a poet, so
I’ll take my clouds medium rare.