• At five you were a regular cherub weren’t you
    and when you showed teeth the ladies patted your head and stuffed your cheeks
    with sugar. It couldn’t rain unless you wanted it to;
    all you wanted was He-Man dolls and your mother.

    Ripping pages out of the calendar, each page plasters your skin
    and shadows it. You now hold the possibility--no the definity--of crinkles.
    In the night the sandman mixes concrete rods and shoves them
    under your kneecaps. That morning you trip over your Nikes and swear
    in front of your father for the first time, without pink apologies.
    You will grow your hair long and wear makeup if you want to goddammit.
    The teachers get the finger and the freshmen get the boot.

    Eyeliner does not come off, did you know? Why are your lids so hollowed and dark then?
    Somewhere along the sidewalk you’ve walked past school and into the night shift
    at Walgreens where you fill zombies’ bags with cigarette smoke and muttering.
    “Have a nice day,” meets “...” You wonder what the point of it all was, anyway.

    What happened between the first crack in the egg and the day you lent me a shovel
    and we buried quarters in the sandbox and the summer you said you were giving away all your KidsBop CDs and did I know anyone who would want them? What happened to birthday wishes
    of meeting Alex Rodriguez and saving the world?

    If all roads lead to Rome, all days, like trees, lean to the morning.
    If not a fact, then at least a dream. Sugar ferments to fine wine
    enjoyed on lonely evenings.