EYING THE EYE
If I was a child again, what might I make of this perfection? Clean, smooth squares
of cement, swept for inspection, rows of pruned bushes spaced
apart like ceremonial guards trained not to wince or twitch.
The bricks of my castle unmarred — unsprayed, unpolluted, now.
And a camera to capture the breaking news of my arrival. My pedestal
awaits. I could stand above the masses of trash. What words of wisdom
could I give, I, neither child nor queen, here to shop?