written February 2008

Little girl, I have seen you

here before.

I have seen you sit alone

on this park bench,

cradling a book in your hands,

wishing for a little more

of something somewhere:

something like marching bands

and crowds of people laughing

and wild waves hitting the shore

miles away along the coastline

where you wish you could be.

Something better, something

joyous and loud with other

girls your age.

You don’t know what

this dream is about.

You only know you dream awake.

Asleep you are too

tired of being by yourself

to invent anything neon

or sparkling or new.

I am so sorry

that I cannot tell you

any different.