Stuck here in a desk
I will trace the grooves between gray bricks
and count the clock that holds the time as prisoner
but,
when no one is looking,
I will shrink to the size of the three grains of rice
closed in my baby sister's pink and sticky palm,
and slip silently between the cracks of the world
and, like a penny in the gutter,
I will make sure I am not missed.
Then won't you grab onto a raindrop and jump with me
into the land of lost things?
We will put our heads on our hats
and our feet on our shoes
and fall up the laundry shoot into the last place you can dance
in the rain that raises up beneath our feet
into the sky,
it will blow my skirt around my knees.
 
Then, when the sun goes down
and the stars come out
there will be enough light to see
that the trees are made of paper
and the moon is made of cheese
and our troubles all are pointless,
for my heart is made of string
that is tangled up in thistles
that catch in my throat when I try to sing.
And if I may steal a metaphor
that got stuck in my head,
you asked me if you broke my face
I'd say you hit my thorax instead
because something in my chest keeps stinging,
I'm sure it's just poking my lung
but I wont give it attention
I'd rather we be having fun
so
catch me a star in a butterfly net
and keep it tight under an upside down glass
don't tell me what I should have done,
I really didn't ask.
 
And once we remember that rhymes
are meaningless,
why don't we finger paint the paper trees
the color of her eyes
and talk of keys and locks
and steel
and eat one bite out of every strawberry in the bowl,
for here they are as infinite as
your stars
and then,
full of fruit and memories,
we will sleep upon the roof
with flecks of indigo paint under our nails
and dream of being back in class,
tracing grooves between gray bricks.