My mother always told me to not play in the street.
But when I was three, I was invincible.
I could fly.
So I shut my lids and soared-
Until an old man and his Chevy's bumper stopped me.
And ever since then I look both ways.

My grandmother always told me to not touch the stove,
but I still attempted to grasp the macaroni pan
But all I got was a patch on my hand of searing scarlet.
And after that I never learned to cook.

I wonder why no one had cautioned me of love.
Because I have this scar under my arm from pavement
And I have this gray patch on my palm
But I have nothing to show from love.
Where is the lesson?

Maybe I am still a foolish little girl.