dropping on wallows,
among childhood nonfiction,
a hero held hostage in my heart,
swarming like bees furious,
but it will be okay, right?
time is a pretty fiction,
ghosts keep calling my name,
and life is a question mark,
and we are all still wishing
like kids in kindergarten roll call.
doubled up with those kinds of
laughter and lies and lunch,
I do not care about parking stones or white shoes,
for I have beautiful other blues
and mild mornings made for sex.