My treehouse with a thumb
talks with an image less than itself.
It mesmerizes mischief with Mayhem,
like a tree watching its own growth
on a ledge. Waterfall below. Thoughts
in between. Taking longer than expected,
the zipper of life made for a humble tremble.
The bus was crowded and I didn’t have time. You crowded me further with your pink eye. You told me that you could change your eye color at will. I didn’t believe you. I watched from the bus window as you walked to your door. Your house was dark. The steps were old and wooden. Your house had broken walls. Now you’re gone and I still don’t know if you changed your eye color.