She speaks to the child in me:
bothered and borrowed by some.
Take cover, then shut down.
My name is not what you think it is.
Why do we say the sun has come out?
Come on, tell the truth:
the clouds stomping in front of it
dissolved, didn't they?
These are my architecture boots.
first green then slick and hardened,
sore from taking too many chances.
I'm misremembered and catastrophic.
I was once your dream or something like it,
something flimsy but decent--
worth remembering when you needed me,
and then not so much.