For Sia
wake up unscrubbed,
sleep still in the eyes,
dream crusted,
probably unaware, child,
that you are a poem
sleeping
when a little girl,
reverting, designing
real from dreams,
processing, reforming,
the dreams lusting
to be poems
to go awandering
no wonder you have
more first names
than the rest of the world
combined
who you gonna be
this day?
undecided?
a new name adopted?
why not...
did you think I didn't notice?
the degree of yours ungranted,
I favor most is the one
you
never take
unless given
but always only
offer all:
friend
escapade thy 'they' thru
their assorted flavors,
nose rings, tongue piercings,
take 'em all, on the train ride to
see Sia run
see Sia play
see Sia read
see Sia lead
her troupe known only to me as the
Sherwood Forest Baker Street Irregulars
on adventures all over the U.K.
someday you will get a degree
from Peter Pan in
all grown-up-ness,
settling down,
but I surely hope not,
for I will then be sadder,
way sadder than I am
even now,
a different generation man,
when
forgone, missing,
the little dream crusted girl
