Wet Dog's Nostalgia

Damned be that plastic uniform when I was in the 7th grade or so it stuck to my knees I pulled it down with my left hand but it was still too short and my heels in round tips stogies drew outwards why couldn’t I understand that life is like a frugal meal made of maize porridge soaked in hot milk poured in aluminum bowls using the same spoons with holes on their handles given to us by the old priest’s wife why couldn’t I see beyond the glossy covers of my books their inside core yellow-lit by the 40 watt light bulb trembling over the black rafters

Fairy tales smelled so good like fresh print I filled my pockets with shepherd’s purse small hearts I scattered them to grow elsewhere there was something of my own I dreamed of keeping the sun in my hands and the rain in my eyes to let them fall over the ground to let my hair grow long down to my waist but my mother opposed I wanted to play the mandolin like a fair-haired princess but I was brunette and my music teacher did not accept me in the children’s chorus

Why didn’t I learn to cry out to dry my tears in a slow train’s smoking compartment amid old cigarette stubs with my eyelashes painted blue because of shame that I did not understand in good time why was I doomed to see so many dogs run over by wheels on the highway in order to finally understand how some old beggar dies in the rain his hand clutching a bag with strawberries received as charity