Her Therapeutic Walks

I always threw a fit
when a friend of mother’s
walked up the stairs
and asked me what I was drinking.

You know, some kind of Kool-Aid,
fresh like interrogated oranges
and their misdirected secrets
clinging to uncaring walls.

They wouldn’t return until I slept,
and this, I could never do so well
because I was annoyingly curious,
intrigued with cartoons starring girls crossed.

I was always afraid of the bridge
and its gaps that bit at my velcro,
so I’d often cry when she turned to leave
because of course, I could see her falling.

There are no local crocodiles
that promise relief from midnight removal,
the only viable option
involving sustenance for lost squirrels.

However, you arrived too happily
until it was time for milk and wafers,
a reminder for me to blink at the wall
and draw you on napkins, petite and alone.

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