How quickly we’re skimming through time,
leaving behind us
a trail of muffin crumbs
and wet towels and hotel soaps
like white stones in the forest.
But something’s eroded them:
we can’t trace them back
to that meadow where we began so eagerly
with the berry-filled cups, and the parents
who had not yet abandoned us
to take their chances in the ground.
Our tropical clothing’s remorseless:
it fully intends to outlast us.
We’re shriveling inside it,
leaking calcium from our bones.
Then there’s our crafty hats:
we catch them sneering in mirrors.
We could afford new t-shirts,
daring ones, with rude slogans,
but it seems a waste:
we’ve got too many already.
Also they’d gang up on us,
they’d creep around on the floor,
they’d tangle our ankles,
then we’d fall down the stairs.