Cartoon girls stare out from gothic
frames, in red, their hands
are pale. Self-portraits, coloured
photographs where ice cream
hangs around in bowls,
is never eaten up.
The bicycle days are short.
Grazed up in bruises I still own
and proudly stated,
' That's where I took a fall.'
Rode in cars still old, in dresses
dusty, the Saturdays
without an end. Sacred only
for the road and Hide and Seek.
Now staring into empty spaces,
closing tired eyes, wishing hard
enough to burst. It's old and
past, I'm sure. Looking skyward,
picking clouds that look like us.
Too much wine to stand
normality of death,
'We're both too young for this'
The blossoms come again,
Ice cream's eaten up. Frames
are hung on every wall,
the birthday way. I still
forget who I am,
but not in this cartoon world.
