Poet Commentaries

Get Lost

Get Lost

At three years old my mother sends me out the door and plunks me on my tricycle.  “Get lost”, she says.

and so I did.

I almost failed because even at three there are landmarks that bind us to found.

To respect my mother I almost did not approach the policeman and, when I did, I pretended not to be excited with all the buttons and his siren as he drove me back to my home.

in captivity
I find myself

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