Each month, write a new collection.
Bliss at 6 years oldCherry red overalls, gingham cuffed edge, caressing soft brown furBlue button eyes and head cocked left, wink attention to me.You arrived in a Marshal Fields box, gently bedded in snow white paper Grandfather fur framing your cheeksNylon whiskers not lasting a yearA half open mouth, whispering secretsClothes tattered quick by hugging adventures.The stitched pink nose to touch-kiss.Flopped ears laughing in style.More boxes from Marshal Fields, A plethora of steiff buttons studs, in long jack rabbit earsLine up familial clusters, hold fast on the Hitchcock bedTall ones in the back, short ones in the frontGingham color matchedLegs steadied to guard the doorArms twisted to hug in danceHeads pivoted to meet the gaze Flopped ears laughing in style.You were firstYou were always the choiceMorning welcome, nigh time closeSized right, squeezed right, sung right, painted rightPlayground, summer camp, auntie visits6 yrs, 10 yrs, 16 yrs, 60.Flopped ears laughing in style.
dixie cup -- bliss at 5Just as you pulled the tab the little thumbnail on the tender lidJust as you felt it resist, peel itself back — that’s the first step.Then, the wooden spoon-y thing that isn’t a spoon but more like a knife A butter knife maybe except its oval on the end, and rounded so the childrenCan’t hurt themselves but they can’t eat what’s inside the cup very fast eitherAnd so several points are served — waste not want not, think of all those childrenIn china (why china? Because it’s very far) with nothing to eat and certainly notIce cream flattened into yin and yang chocolate/vanilla subsections in the roundnessOf the cup. The wooden spatula-spoon-eating-implement must be released from its wax paper confinement.The edge — serrated — must be torn open, the wooden thing released.And now there is already so much to throw away and you only have two tiny child hands.Just as you attempt to hold, the lid, the cup, the spoon thing, the paper it comes in — impossible —Some hand — an adult hand— takes the detritus.Just as you hold the cup in your hand. It’s tiny too, so it fits. It’s cold, and we know what that meansIt means deliciousness. It means summer. It means standing someplace hot in New York City.It means eating vanilla side of the yin-yang equation first. To get it over with. Vanilla is ok butNot like the other side. Just as you plunge the implement into the now softer side. And the taste slides on your tongue.Just as you breathe it in, all of it. Ice-cream, summer, heat, a bird in the distance maybe, trees,But most of all that ice-cream and the silent swerve of the wooden spoon-thingDiving into that cold cup for anotherBite.
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