when i was six and my momma in a flower dress thirty-eight

on the concrete lay three pennies, a dime, and a hot quarter

back home i brought these with scraped knees scathed by the lone star heat

streets of black asphalt ground me up falling off a tandem bike

gazing up at the blurry blue sky collapsed beneath me dripping grass

blades with a yellow sheen swearing one day the water will come

and they shall become verdant again feeding off foliage of last fall

observational skills my momma paid me none cutting her dough

rolling her head round to only the sound of the percussion of coins

hitting the ceramic walls of a piggy bank when dropped inside

endless opportunity conceived thoughts of bigger bargains

for the pig on haloperidol to whom i sent greetings of the night

in gales its stomach was swept clean again by morning light