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By the time we
know what it means
to be a child
we are no longer
children.

Slurping watermelon rinds,
picking corn out of our teeth
like no one's watching.
No one is, really.

Hopscotch for the simple -
chalk, cement, summer sun
painting by numbers
1-2-3-4-5-6-7 and
done.

All that glitters
is not gold, once you
regret your cavities.

Phantom pains: those pebbles
you kick aside and then
stumble over headlong,
scraping your chin, bleeding
into the palm of the Earth.

You'll survive,
or find a way to.
(Like maybe making
lists of things to tack
onto the fridge, to help
you remember tomorrow
you existed today.)

1-2-3-4-5-6-7- for
how long do we count?
Time's a lukewarm
dagger at our throats,
room temperature.

The heart's a trooper--
machine gun tempo.
And the brain a spark (in youth),
an ember (in senility), rasping

"why?"
why?
why?

'Cause you can only
run so many red lights
before you run out
of gas.

Don't mind the lady(?)
who gave you the finger;
you caught her in a moment
of truth (called impulse).

Keep kindling, then.
Nostalgia and fireflies under
a big sky the shade of
blueberry jam.