Why

Why is no one here to paint the sky green? 
The wooden stairs creak like crickets dreams
of tall grasses, as everything moves sideways 
afraid to look, swallow, or engage as
the wheels spiral out of control—I am me 
before you were born, before you ate the 
birthday cake, the stars vomitted light—the night
watchman was blind I held one cloud in my
back pocket and listened to thunder break
shards of daylight sang Galileo’s silent
harmony of planets, I sit 
on a toadstool, to direct traffic.
Why?