I remember being small…
Good Lord! I’d rather be
small again, when scar tissue could not work
against us instead of for us,
Back when I did not hear
the whispering in my ears,
"Be careful riding down that doggoned hill on Pine Street!
You’ll fall off your scooter and break your neck!"
The point I wish to make is this:
You can, if you choose, totally ignore
those little voices.
The child’s mind, with its sorry "eternal truths,"
all skin and bone, gaunt… "I say it’s spinach and I say the hell with it…"
I rode down that dreadful hill
of dreadful height
into a pile of cinders spilled out
of the alleyway
And with the speed of catastrophe imminent,
I knew I was wrong when I got up that morning and
had the feeling I was going to have a good day…
Future history resolves itself…
And what I call God
and fools call Nature suddenly
fell into effect,
And so did I,
skidding over cinders and cinders
wondering if my excessive "carefulness"
had led to Inhibition and Anxiety…
My memory put a red star in the corner
as my blood drew red specks into my cut-up jeans
And I picked up my scooter
and wheeled it home.
A child’s mind is just like that; inscrutable,
Colossal, and in a miserable fit of the blues.