Are we junk?  Waste,
Shard and smear,
Empty symbol made by
“Doled out Poet’s papers,
Hoarded like sweets?”

Our awkward secrets
stumble
cislunar.

A large penny for the mysterious sweet shop and
A wooden tray of treasures, for my paper twist,
Fingers sticky with sugar, giggling at the silliness
Of a younger sister with a boys haircut

Silver milk bottle tops on a frosty winters morn
Pierced by hungry, pecking ****,  
Finger nails scrapping frost from window panes
Revealing the dim day dawning before simpler eyes

Listening to the breakfast radio show for latest releases
Above a chattering bustling kitchen
Shouting, a little sister curling her hair, that we’d be late
Pelting towards school bus, with Camus stuffed in a torn pocket

They put me in the oven to bake.
Me a deprived and miserable cake.
Feeling the heat I started to bubble.
Watching the others I knew I was in trouble

They opened the door and I started my life.
Frosting me with a silver knife.
Decorating me with candy jewels.
The rest of my batch looked like fools.

Lifting me up, she took off my wrapper.
Feeling the breeze, I wanted to slap her.
Opening her mouth with shiny teeth inside.
This was the day this cupcake had died.