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At Five
By David Harris-Gershon
I was the child
choking on tears,
unaware you could just
whip it out,
pants pooled around feet
frozen by laughter.
Now, it’s so transparent,
spraying kindergarten ghosts
with rounds of champagne
and that rebel yell,
whoohhooeeyyy,
the soaked Kangaroos
and Velcro Keds
in an abandoned alley
on New Year’s eve.
So crystalline, so clear
that the arc of time
is a parabolic spray
circling back
as time tracks through
the annual terrain,
planting its boot in a
stumbling mind drunk
on the question,
Does anything change?
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