The milk in my bowl is turning pink

The milk in my bowl is turning pink

from the sugary flakes, but I can't look down.

The coyote on the wall has these eyes

that aren't eyes, just glass spheres

holding a reflection of the ceiling fan.

It’s supposed to look wild, I guess,

but there’s a thick pelt of house-dust

on its muzzle. And the tongue—

it’s a slab of pink plaster, chipped at the tip,

looking like a piece of Bazooka Joe

left under a middle school desk in 1994.

It’s so dry. I want to offer it a sip,

or maybe I just want to wipe the gray

off its snout so it can breathe,

if it remembered how to do that.