Harbinger of Hope

Once a month, I am in a cycle, I suppose that’s obvious to those who believe I’m referencing menstruation, but I’m not.

I thought that’s what he had. I really was quite positive.

Tipping-can tipsy, topsy-turvy, a tea kettle spills its spout! And, around and around we go,
off. And then again and again, the merry-go-round moves and we shout,
and run for the two horses who move up and down their gold poles, not stuck like the ostrich, the white Easter Rabbit or the sleigh, for these were the seats for those too little, or the freaks whose mother’s wouldn’t let them go.

And, sometimes, just a regular kid like me who on that one time made a mistake in choosing for the looks of the lion’s head and not checking under the body for that crank that makes the ride go up and down.

Maybe, it’s better when they go? Because now I am writing, now I am manically sweeping my stairs, rounding up give-away-gifts without any prior thought, weeding an entire bed in a turquoise tank this sunny day in March while most pass me in coats, the lightest of these the group of home schoolers and their mother all an early rainbow of Easter-pastel’s, golden straw hats and tortoise-shelled-shades.

Back inside, I’d hoped he’d called. No.
I’d coped by watching a home-show--so many emoji smiles slide, watercolors,
into, and down, a cornered drain.

Photo Credit: Kira auf der Heide/unsplash