You forget, and I suppress
that I am still
dirty soles of feet,
dandelions,
& buttercups.
Tiptoeing through the squishy, mucky non-lawn,
to see the raindrops gathered
in sprouts:
diamonds.
You forget I'm still
a quavering little kid,
wonder why I blush
at your illustrations.
We hold hands,
but only because
it's supposed to be ironic.
Because at this point,
it should be done
simply to feel
the sweaty warmth
of fingers
and palms to palms... |