When I pick you up, you turn me into an autoworker in Detroit who made this old wreck convertible we ride in to a movie and dinner.

At the movies, you turn me into the leading roles, the cinematographer and the director. Afterwards you turn me into The New Yorker film critic.

At dinner, you turn me into Julia—The Art of French Cooking—Child. You turn me into the rancher who raised the meat we eat and the farmer who grew the veggies. You turn me into the chocolate that grows in Mexico.

On the way home, you turn me into a gliding magic carpet, wafting wavily above the freeway and city lights, to my door, through the door, up my stairs, into my bedroom, onto my bed.

There you turn me into a puff of weed, and I turn to you and you turn to me, and we make one another into the other.