She is young enough that her tears
are still fat; sniff of a nose
crinkling at the fact
she hasn't
gotten what she wants.
She's perfected the stomp,
the scowl. Waver in her voice
as she declares
I don't really love her.
Her jaw-line clamps into
a stone effigy
and I can almost hear
curses she's not allowed to know
ping-ponging in the silence.
I smile long enough for recognition
she still exists
in my world
and turn back to the Sunday paper.










19 old applause
