You want braces and boobs. She's
twelve, thirteen, twenty and she
hugs you in the sandwich line as
you spread mustard on rye.

 

She's nine, ten, thirty and she
kisses you on the cheek as you
ride your red leather bicycle
up and down the cul-de-sac.

 

You fell off that bike, the mustard
sandwich baggie crushed under
the bent wheels, and she laughed
at you, and then, not an hour later,
in the barren apartment with the
sharp-edged furniture, she
bandaged your boo-boo and made
you feel better than you ever had
in your entire life.