The first time I asked for an Impossible Thing
was not in the lazy summer afternoon lull when
Lola was cutting out my newspaper sword and you said
yes, you would be my dragon. Yes,
you would be my horse. Yes,
you would be my prince.  Yes,

I may ride your stiffened shoulders
as many hours as I like. Yes,
you'll buy me chocolate covered marshmallows
and chocolate kisses and chocolate bars. Yes,
you'll laugh at everything I say,
listen to my songs and stories, watch me dance, but

No.

You will not stop poisoning
your lungs, but yes. You will
give me chewing gum, ask me
to step outside, while I watch
another second of your life leave
as your chest heaves, phlegm
piercing your throat like shards.

I can still smell the smoke, Lolo.
Ashes to ashes.

I can still smell the smoke, Lolo.