I. What am I?

Not everyone should be here.

Piss-poor prose proves it.

A life of homework and hormones,

judge and jury, mom and mistress,

tour guide to mind-travels, opening

doors, smacking the knuckles of form,

and crushing hopes, time, and progress,

sometimes, and at other times,

cradling children to their higher selves.

II.What am I?

And adults, too, not in sterile walls,

but on soft cushions, brushed in

pastel blues, pinks, and lavender,

a wave wall below the billowing clouds,

emanating from dark chocolate laminate,

facsimile of earth and sky.

Here, the magic grows from crooked toes,

knobby knees, putrid breath, loose sphincter,

synchronized to subtle movement, and

peace, peace, and perfect peace.

III. What am I?

But not the cathode ray light,

the one I tap at, looking for linguistic

miracles, searching for synonyms,

definitions, brisk, leisurely, narrow, wide,

whichever way the words lean, the subject

unwinding and then reeling back in,

close to the bone, from vacuum cleaner

reviews to gun crimes in New Jersey

to Texas probates, and mans’ best friend and beyond.

A buck will get you 20, a hundred so much more, but

Steady pay gets you life.