We are stamp-lickers,
Overachieving procrastinators, addicts
The kind of kids that
ran to the depths of local ponds
Just to go screaming
As our mothers did,
shrieking under the airplanes
departing to the heavens

We bit bullets, licked our fangs clean
but a bit wet behind the ears
Animal, animal, animal
We were the animals
Some of us had seashell ears, or
a lions' throats, with glass eyes
4-year-old hands in an artifact museum
Tour guides with Applachian Mountain acne,
scripted, itchy voices

We could feel the pulsation
in the softs of our tight fingers
every time the signs read
"Do not touch."