Mara Lowhorn
Thank God for nights like this.
I haven’t been mad at you
in like an hour and a half.
Ever since we called out Goldilocks
for her pissy attitude
and accidentally played
our favorite song on the piano.
You have revealed me to myself,
in the hopscotch squares on the sidewalk,
the narrowly missed decapitation
by a south lawn Frisbee.
We don’t know the things we didn’t learn about.
But we remember
rubbing Old Man Wilson’s nose
for a bit of luck
and bicycling in the rain,
tires skidding on slick cement,
a radioactive downpour
that made the whole town glow in the dark.
Climbing the roof of the nearest building
and running down the sides
like condensation.
We couldn’t take the heat
so we just had Cheerios for dinner.
The squeaky mess of milk decisions
was gobbled up
by the incoming draft,
though the windows were glued shut
with nectarine jam.
The discussion of why we can no longer
rely on card tricks for support:
There is no peace here.
Lay down your spaghetti noodle swords.
Muddle through.
Nevertheless
the sun did rise.
