I Wish She'd Said Goodbye
She’s 11-years old with a soul wild
as a thicket bush with a single purple
flower guarded by thorns. Mom and dad beat
each other, fists swollen with apologies.
In the peace of the night, she packed her attitude
t-shirts, fruit gummies, and goodbye letters
in her bag of teenage angst -- no one would take
time to read her words.
Her feet dragged in the dawn of tractor trailer
drivers picking up speed while rocks hopped
away from heavy shoes. Two miles out
she stepped into the wilderness of stale coffee
grounds, snack cakes, and Tammy the graveyard
cashier. With no green gold lining her jean
pockets, Tammy sent her away unamused
to float aimlessly with suicidal moths --
tired of living in discrimination against
winged things, only wanting to make love
to the goddess of white light.
Little Debbie’s crinkled smile inched
onto our heroine’s shoulder, Raisin Creme pie
filled her face, grungy fingers caked
in predation said “Go on, eat it.”
So she did, ravenous for mom’s Sunday
pancakes with warm syrup -- it’s time
to go home. A polite “Thank you” spoken
through the crackle of plastic tossed over
the shoulder like tomorrow’s Missing
Children’s Report --Ma’am, it hasn’t
been 24 hours yet. She slid her angst
up her shoulders like polyester, but she made peace
with it as she turned toward home.
Raisin Creme pies can’t understand
“Leave me alone.” Screams bring life to stale
coffee, but her story will be lost in the jungle
that is the control room -- endless hours
of film to pilfer through, we’re too busy.
We’re too busy to ask Little Girl Lost why
she’s meandering through aisles of shelved
expiration when her life is just beginning.
We’re too busy following the damn system
to say “Fuck it. That’s someone’s child.”
No, we wait. We wait for Little Girl Lost
to pray for help for at least a 24-hour
time span. We wait for someone’s hard
heart to break her spirit. Then we act
as the numbers soar by the wing of a decimal.
Singles become hundreds become millions.
We pity third worlds because that’s their
culture -- savages can’t be taught civility.
When will we learn that green envy does not
make us gods? I’ll never learn of Little Girl Lost
until her goodbye letters are part of the morning
broadcast script.
