Stowaway
She stows away inside me,
watches for shadows to tag,
and says, Don't step on cracks.
She waves at me in the mirror
and makes faces until I laugh.
She steers me to toy stores,
pushes every Press-me button
and begs for a scooter.
In supermarkets she fingers Twinkies,
and to move her past candy at checkout,
I let her slide my charge card, press tabs,
and scribble my name.
She wonders why people don't sing
or skip down the street. She wonders
where their stowaways hide, and wants
to call them on deck to play.
At home, I invite her topside—
we hopscotch down the hall.
The Shadow Knows
On my walk, I face the sun
low in the sky and sense
I'm being tailed, shadowed.
I turn, catch a tall spy, and ask
what she knows about me.
Her silence suggests secrets
are best left in the shadow.
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Blowing Winds
Outside my breakfast window
a crackling noise calls me:
a brown sycamore leaf
scrapes the cement.
Curled tall, looking like
Tyrannosaurus Rex,
its top prong
sports an attitude,
its arm prongs
grab at life.
A wind gust
turns it on its back:
an animal defeated,
paws in the air.
Compelled, I go outside
to right this creature
and find a fair wind blew
it back to its feet.
I leave to face my own day.
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