The early years
dragged like a stump leg.
I pulled my wagon
over a wasteland, parked at the foot
of the mansion, grew inside
till my head hit the ceiling.
One day I looked out at the paved roads
that choked my cottage. The rain blew round,
shutters clacked, time fattened.
I wished for the slow draw of dusk,
the high windows, the long yawn
I knew as a kid. I wondered
if back then I walked lame,
dipped toes in wet cement
while my parents twisted and flew
through my beloved years
*Published in Gargoyle #60 / 2013