the last unicorn

i like zebras
for their stripes,
and birds for
their wings;
wolves for their
mournful howls and
underwater creatures
for their alien environment—

most of all,
i like unicorns

they aren't real but
i pretend they are,

seven years old
and wishing on a salty
folded chip at daycare
that i might finally
chance across one
in the woods at
grandma's farm,

with a pink or purple
mane and eyes that
smile, "yes, i am real
outside of stories and
imagination and that
really long movie
with the cheesy
soundtrack"