They used to give chocolates; you remember
sausage-worm fingers diving into
boxes of the unknown, sharp, sticky
tears as someone is pushed too hard
the box springs to heights unfathomable
here, it hurts just here
but only two eyes are on the boy's chest
pupils up at a dappled ceiling where
wet paper crackles poster paint dust
making promises to spectral parents
as not to get that one which gets
stuck in your teeth.
Now, you hover at a mouse
waiting for someone to toss you
two letters, maybe three
unceremoniously
like a wrapper in the wind.