Tulips waiting
to bloom
in schoolyards.

Children
in wellies

stomp

the alphabet
into the street.

Streetlamps
bend over, I
am not yet a trampoline.

I’m pining
for a soon-to-be
stepmother of three.

Her
reflection meets mine

in a stale
puddle of milk.

All the town’s
clocks died.

I missed
every train;

trains shouldn’t
arrive
on the same track.

I’ll eat
away her guilt.

I fought
in a war

I let her win.