I will not be disturbed by this mother of three. I will ignore her Cheshire makeup, her matching white tennis club outfit, and her wild dreams of a life on Mars. I will do this because she is what I am not-- she is a ghost, while I am free.
I see her in the stratos, I see her in the sky. I see her in the people, I see her in my mind.
I am made of crooked a l p h a b e t soup and I have seen the mother of death and rebirth and understanding. I have faced her in her milk cart prison, and I have dreamed of her shining yesteryear.
For there is more than alphabet s o u p in the can. There is a flood of m e m o r i e s reactivated by the breaking of a mental dam.
Now I see that I am aging swiftly and poorly, for my years have escaped me, and have long been forgotten. Farewell, Stanley Elementary School; So long, Marblehead Charter; I remember you in J e w i s h tones and chlorine-crusted c h a i n l i n k fences.
But a f r e s h s u n s l o w l y r i s e s, my dear, and I k n o w that I m u s t become a peacock once a g a i n.