In that brief
moment of time
before my
mother threw up my arms
and popped
the ice-cube from my
throat I saw
that the rays of the sun
were on
automatic pilot.
That my only
hope was that I
would grow
back like a crustacean leg.
The town would
finally
corner the
market on town news.
I would start
out as a paperboy
but later
sensationalize the local
crocodilians
into any number of arsons.
And work my
way up to hold up
the village
awol with a BB-gun.
Boys jab each
other with popsicles.
One inscribes
the name of a lover
on a
blackened trellis.
These tales
keep surfacing
now and again
like somebody
coming up for
air in a blue
expanse of
opacity. A cold
melting lake
of teardrops
where no one
really pays
the price of
admission
but waits for
the exits to open
and slips
down among the seats.
Spits up what
they have
and sits down
to the meal.
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