Tuesday, November 2, 2010

Today I'm Drinking Tea Instead of Coffee

You cradled me from near infancy
and had me believing in a world
that shouted change from roof
tops high enough to eat the sky.

I brought you presents of nail
polished turtle shells and wild
flower bouqets and torn and scabby
knees ripped on blacktop barricades.

Once I knocked the binoculars
from the kitchen table and you shouted
until your face turned red and locked
me outside until my hands turned blue.

I'm pretty sure you're shrinking while
I grow and that my nose now rests
on your collar bones instead of halfway
down your arm and suddenly I'm afraid of heights.

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