a little girl lovingly peels off a two-week scab
drops it into her glass of lemonade
looks at it for a moment as if it might be treasure,
then picks it up and drinks it.

a little girl peels off her scab,
drops it into her morning milk
contemplates nothing
then drinks it to the dregs.

a man says you have depression take Prozac
another says you have a clot
yet another says I disagree,
is it a wonder you’re now mad?

a little girl slips off the kitchen counter
closes the fridge as she passes it by
and steps into the garden.

passing the lunatics conference
she climbs to the top of her tree
where she stares at the clouds
wondering where they go to at night.

at the funeral, some years later
(death unknown, melancholic alcoholic),
the little girl has now grown,
and as she stares at the coffin she wonders out loud
but what will become of me now?