Eight Years Old

In second grade I moved
To a different suburb
Only half an hour away
But it felt like
Hundreds and hundreds of miles.

The teachers were nice enough,
And I guess so were the kids,
But they all played with pogs
And I had no idea
What those were.

I had an illustrated copy of
The Hound of the Baskervilles
Edited for children and when
I read it unabridged I was upset
Because there were no pictures.

I didn’t have a crush
On anyone, because
I was eight years old
And much more interested in
Someday owning a horse.

And I never secretly
Watched someone take a shit.
Why would I want to?
That’s fucking weird.
Imagine Holmes stepping in dog shit on the moors.

Comments are closed.