I have been pigging out on Oreos lately. They aren’t good for me. My doctor warns me that my nocturnal habits are wrong. Too many snacks. Too little sleep. I quote that boy-devil, Bart Simpson, and tell him not to have a kitten.
Somewhere by my grandparents house; strawberries from the heart
Better still, there are Oranges in Europe and
Grapes in South Melbourne and
A man from the Northern suburbs with a belt that
Wears studs and a tattoo I know better than to
Offers me a coffee with half a spoon of sugar.
I was an only child. Have no merry assumptions. I was not an only child by design. Can a girl ever be an only child by choice? It was the era of death and disease. None of amma’s children survived to become my brothers and sisters.
A teacher once asked if I lived on the dirty side of the Philippines, I had to think what she meant—if she meant a part easier to ignore homeless kids on the streetsides with cardboard blankets curled up like street dogs; if dirty meant poor meant eating rice with soy sauce ‘cause mama couldn’t afford meat;
Another car goes by; this time, the puppies move together toward the shiny wheel and break off in sync like a flock of geese. The leader sends out signals, and they move in unison. Finally, they stop and stare at me. I would take one back home with me if I could. They were that cute.
the spider climbs the spout
the wheels on the bus go round
Jack gets the magic beans
and I say ding dong
we are all scrambling out of the frying pan
where dozens of eggs were broken
to make incredible inedible omelets