Feeling alone in the world, a boy
looks for sweet snap peas in April.
He knows his so-deemed lazy eye
is still ticking, for it is so crucial
to his trophy case of tragedy,
of truth as mad as classmates
who are very bad at gift-giving.
He is a bash and a boom too hot
to handle, perhaps for good.
Hearing choir voices in the sky,
he can’t refuse their secrets
of the past, even in wind that wants
to have its day in court. Call him
the Horatio Alger of the little ones.
Smell that? It’s his childhood,
his bold strategy to reimagine
his way into the crux of springtime.
An encouraging jolt of indigo falls
into his lap, but does he even see it?
He sacrifices his harmonica playing,
imagined or not, to the accusers,
to the ones who deeply love to cook.
This is his dream of undersea cables
and wrinkle cream, of deep friendship
with rice steamers he adores. His hands
are green, and he will not rein them in.
