Capped like an electric wheelchair
whining to consume more parquet tiles
racing down the hallway
I'm counting until the moon--
there are no more numbers now
just a brow scrunched like vacuum
sealed packaging.
Mr. Penny used to ride his bicycle
while we were shooting hoops,
baggy shorts, the newest shoes,
six
out of ten from the free throw line.
Forgive me, Lord of my Childhood,
for peeing at the roots of the tree
that
hoisted us away from Mom's
calls
for supper.
Forgive me—
Down in my meadow, knee-deep in the
weeds of this mind.
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