I'm manufactured like hand-me-down clothes.
Worn at the seams though I'm not old.
Elastic stretched out,
zipper caught on its own track,
my buttons won't snap.
The threads at my knees tear
revealing scarred skin that won't disappear.

But I can roll the hems,
unlatch the zipper,
replace the buttons.
And truthfully, I like the look of jeans
with rips at the knees
so what if it reveals me?

I wear the clothes of my mother and sisters
what they loved is now mine to claim
for it doesn't quite fit them anymore
and perhaps some seams ripped
but that I can fix so it will fit me.

The clothes I wear may not be new
and hold old hopes that won't come true
but it holds old love too.

Hand me down children
breathe off borrowed air
born from slip ups
out of the womb they come
into the arms of guilty parents
and into this world of musical chairs
where everybody's fighting for a seat

too many kids?
or not enough chairs?

hand me down children have a way
of looking at the world
a little differently
they ask why and can take a beating
they admire the shades of their bruises
they are made of the same stuff as firecrackers
they know when they are being lied to
they even know why

Hand me down children will always find each other
and love each other
Hand me down children sat in the back
and couldn't spell too well
they did stupid dares and almost died frequently
they got socks for Christmas
and made them into puppets
they weren't scared of the dark
or at least that's what they say
they slice up the night like birthday cake
and pop tires to make swings
and the world is their playground
monkey bars of lead pipes
swings of driftwood
slides of cement, toppled building halfpipes
sidewalk chalk stolen from substitute teachers
Paper cranes made out of pink slips,
merri-go-round-abouts, bikes without brakes

Hand me down children play
in mommys old sweater
daddys old socks
brothers shoes
and sisters scarves
and they play after the flashlights burn out
and after the fireflies die in their jars