i had my first whiff – dang. it was bad.

how bad? i cannot quite say without

falling into the same cycle: the swing is just

a little too hard, the cry babies have red bottoms,

while a teacher’s pet is all the glory. not like morning glory,

whose wilting stance i quite imagined many times

before it actually happened. it was the first day i got cupid’s arrow,

and it hit wrong; hit me in the eye, not where the bull nearly got hit,

skipped a beat. that beat became a clap, then a shout

when a bigger pay check would have been much better.

you say, save it for a rainy day,

but then you are always out there on the rainy day

without me. gambling.

i suppose you call it being astute,

though when the play is reversed, you know like cross stitched

you tell me it is all for nothing. nothing comes from our dialogues.

the baby is fast asleep again,

having rehearsed many times how the debacle would go about,

and it is never the one that sings the loudest,

it is just noise, not really beethoven. the glass is cracked, cracked face

you breaking into many pieces

saying this is all a rehearsal for the real event. wait. we kept waiting

for that moment to come about,

the moment when me and you would just get the exact same fair share

that we’ve never quite come to

agreements. then the moment comes, we forget why

we argued in the first place, the standards mean double. double

vision surely, and here we go again.