she ate crème brûlée with the bluntest fork.
this afternoon, her first time.
she wanted to tell the world and its
mother that she finally knew what
she had missed, what she had feared,
and all she could only read about
between walls so thin like the red worn
by crisp, dainty apples washed with joy.
morning is rarely missed, returning too soon
with birds in the middle of gossip’s fifth round
piercing the lightest blue, and she’ll learn to
make some for herself, plastic spoons aplenty
as the clock does stand oh so wonderfully still.
it was never too late for the girl
who shook and cried after an unbroken fall.
Cat No. 109 of the 500 Cats Project