It was too early, she was too young
She only wanted to belong
Instead of friends, she came home with bruises
And they were only amused

She was just seven, only second grade
And leaving home so afraid
Instead of listening, her cries meant nothing
Maybe she meant nothing
Maybe help was never coming

It went on too long, she could never win
She only wanted to stop them
Instead of smiles, she grew up with anger
And they only blamed her

She was just a child, only a little kid
And dreaming of her coffin
Instead of crying, she wanted to stop hurting
Maybe she could stop hurting
Maybe she could bury it

It was too late, she was so wrong
The damage was already done

The first bird (bard?) of the morn
I peeped into the salon.

Are you ready mate? I queried.

His eyes were ashes of night
and I doubted his mood.

I should be, he said
your hair is my livelihood.

Make it short I said
top bottom and the sides
and his scissors was Beethoven
soothingly rising and falling
making the sweetest sound
celebrating martyrdom of my hairs
resignedly falling on the ground.

But too soon it was over
and he held the mirror.

Wouldn't a little shorter be fine?

Nope, he smiled
considering your hairline
further recession would be a disaster.

I paid him buying his logic
and like a symphony
skimmed the air merrily.

The sleepy man at the museum
directed me to the balloons.

Ten out of ten shots went astray
proving my eyes are lame
and so my aim.

The galleries were eerily deserted.
(is people's interest in science flagging?)

I looked down the infinite well
for awhile eternally falling into it
recovering from the realization
they were merely infinite reflections.

The man's smile told he knew from my dazed look
I was lost in the mirror maze.

(Was I stuck in all the wrong exhibits
for my age?)

I got a ticket for the sky in September
finding peace in the dark of the planetarium.

I watched the moments of silver haired lifers.
In a garden of forgotten
and overgrown things.

I could not help but notice the rust of it,
the splinters of it
how thirsty it all was.
Like an old coat of paint
on an old field plow

He would bring her a queen's many flowers
in a wheelbarrow sarcastically too small
stopping and going like Morse code words
always looking three steps away
from 5 O'Clock lemonade
and a porch swing pipe.

But not that stubborn barrow.

It moved with him, supporting that beauty.
A brave thing, a tested thing, a balanced thing.

Through the days they slowly wore
a rut through that garden.
An arching scar left by an underfed tire
All for the smiles of passersby
and the twinkle in an old mothers eyes.

I felt the words on the wind just then
"I hope to find love like theirs one day"
I whispered back
"I hope to find love like that wheelbarrow"
...
one day.

and you ain't gotta dig too deep
to find it

it's right behind your eyes, in that picture
you see

of Mama runnin' half naked from the house covered
in blood and snot

and crack crazed daddy chasing after her
with a butcher knife

before the man come and gunned
him down

it's there in that lump throat memory of grandad telling you his own Papa got the whip

for standing tall against a bulldog
Alabama sheriff

hell is being sent to Granny
for foster care

and her telling you she ain't got enough
food for herself

it's wearing shoes so tight
every step is a jab

a reminder everything you do
is gonna come with pain

what Hell ain't is what that fat pastor
claims it to be

some fiery place I can't even
see

buried so far down I can't feel
its infernal heat

hell, hell is right here on my black
and blood painted street

please don't escape
i want you here
living, breathing,
existing

you are alive,