Wake up before you and hide the Golden books in the night stand,
wondering when exactly the Swiss
extract themselves from bed to turn the waterfalls back on.
Take me to the mountains in an elevator
and down a wooden slide requiring straddling, not sitting,
so we can lick the same salt as everyone else,
turned black with bacteria and dirty hand-oil;
why weren’t we afraid of diseases?
You’ll know where I am by my red bucket hat,
bobbing in the waves at a safe distance
between intermittent construction projects
requiring mainly sand and water,
with a splash of aesthetic spacing and height
and a touch of structural integrity know-how.
By the way, the Leaning Tower of Pizza is 1) not edible, and 2) did not have rails in the late eighties.
Step on a giant stick and it won’t stay stationary;
most likely it will jump up and gouge my leg,
but no matter—there are are bazillion ladybugs to catch in
little handines that pudgily encase them until they’re
deposited in a flat-red Ford Escort with squared edges.
Learn not to smear nasal excretions on walls, or
Miss Audrey will yell, “You know bedderendat!”
It’s okay though, she still loves me and I’m the only one
she calls her daughter,
and for a few years I’m black by day.
The middle of the toast is best, all juicy with butter.
I’ll eat the crusts to make you happy and
feel like a good mother.
Just promise me we can get ice cream sandwiches from
the machine that only sells ice cream sandwiches
so they’re sure not to run out.
