Lately I’ve been eating apple sauce from the little plastic cups.
A purchase attributed to a rather dreadful stint with the flu.
The mush is easy to swallow when most everything else crawls back up my throat with a ferocity.
Eating the slop, criss cross, apple sauce-
Nostalgia washes over me like the the salty chlorinated water of a hotel pool.
Like most every other punk, I spent most of my childhood
Pissed off and jaded-
Yearning to be six foot something
For my piggy bank to become a payment plan
For my leather clad Mary-Janes to become sensible loafers
For my handlebars to become a steering wheel
It was not until lately- enveloped in sickness and a thick quilt
Did I ask myself- at what age did the “playdates” become “hangouts”?
Which Christmas did I receive my very last toy?
When precisely did crayons become mechanical pencils?
When did I switch tables at Thanksgiving?
I’ve healed from the ailment but I still have a surplus of individually packaged cinnamon applesauces to finish.
I Think I’ll lolly-gag on finishing off those little containers.
Because I know when I scrape up those last bits with my silver spoon,
When I’ve lapped up every last bite- and tossed that cup and that tinfoil lid-
I’ll have tossed some part of my youth away forever.
No comments:
Post a Comment