we are children treated as adults
(or it could be vice versa)
with no direction,
no hopscotch grid leading to the next stage,
shaking hands in place of patty-cake,
our no longer sticky fingers
cling to paper bills and grasp at plastic and cloth and metal and stones,
almost believing they are what identifies us.
like new toys, we indulge
in touch and feel and romance,
and other drugs too,
to numb our collective fear of the future.
our first day jitters have transitioned to a paralyzing fear of our last days,
and our tricycles have lost their training wheels,
and we take responsibility,
we learn to care more,
to care less,
we find jobs and alcohol and credit cards but never ourselves,
and we grow up.