When I was five,
I filled my doll house with almost
a hundred rollie polies
(Trust me, I counted)
Simply because I wanted them to have
A nice home.
Dirt wedged under the nails
Of eager hands that hunted.
The small bugs curled into
Little planets
As they rolled to the center of my palm.
One by one,
They went into the worn, plastic, cup.
I peered closely at them in sheer admiration,
As though they were the equivalent
Of a puppy underneath a Christmas tree.
They were taken to the room of
Bunny rabbit wallpaper and afternoon naps.
Each one placed after
Careful deliberation
Into the room it would like the best.
Then, a blur:
The shrieks of my parents,
A hurried search party,
And the heart-sinking disappointment
That the humble earth-dwellers
Had not appreciated
My generous mansion.
How fragile dreams are.
For two seconds of joy,
There was half an hour of pure chaos.
Oh, isn’t that just how some things go?
The expectation is better.
(a.g.)
