Adulting

Pavonine  pigtails and

a sea of sleeping sheep

washed ashore a

beach of sepia dreams:

Mumma has them under lock

and key, in a wooden chest

of soufflé clouds, for suntans

and Polaroids are

a luxury of the cherubic past.

 

They writhe and quibble

in candid memory.

 

Today, I am the proud

owner of what they call

‘Adulthood’.

Today, I am the proud

owner of ennui.

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