Poetry is for losers

[coca_coca_cola]

Putting on a brittle lime sweater I found
under wrecked puzzle pieces and action figures
and tucking my raw hands into the sleeves

I scamper outside from the back door...
To the front yard...
Down the rock-strewn driveway
Twisting my feet to make a scratchy sound in the pebbles

“I can run way fast!”
I watch my feet as I run.
I know this place so well,
I’ll never hit a tree

I didn’t ride the tire swing that day
It was a water oak
A swelling on my head
And a scratched elbow

An ego-tripping ego-tripper,
And I’m still hitting trees
I know this place so well