There’s a girl in that picture
Her hair is not quite blonde
But looks like gold when the light hits it
I try to look into her eyes, see if they are grey like mine, but they are too full of wonder
Attentively staring at me
Am I the life she’d dreamed she’d be?
Am I?
Shh I can’t tell her!
I can’t spell the words out for her on lined paper, she can’t put it in her notebook that I’m broken
She’ll fall down to the ground, just a crumpled ball of a girl in a warm pink sweater
Scotch taped into a story
Woven into a fable
That she didn’t write
I can’t tear up the old photograph, smash the glass of my picture frame
I painted it, once with a careless brush and breaking art is a crime
Even mine
She wanted to hear taxis, that girl
Walk down avenues, with a hand in hers and hold a glass of champagne
Strolls in the rain, laughter down the brownstone steps, twirls in long dresses
Carry her world in a red purse
Who am I to tell her?
Let her put in her notebook that I’m broken?
Wipe her eyes dry of wonder
I heard taxis
Ran down avenues, holding an unknown hand, broken bottles of champagne
Lost in the rain, fell down the brownstone steps, ripped long dresses
Hid my world in a red purse
There it’s stayed
Shh! She doesn’t need to know.