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Wander Land - Patrick Moloney

Alice sleeps in the streets under the judgment of fluorescent temples. And a retail generation

folds jeans listening to Coldplay


She’s from Kansas or someplace where hair bands play at state fairs

Folks sit in pews that smell like John v 1:12 and go to Sunday breakfast with

bacon in puddles.


Someone could have tucked her in back home, under clean sheets and scented dolls, or maybe Uncle John was funny but too friendly. Her soul had to leave her body and mind;

so they all could live.


Alice talks to Alice constantly. Everyone else stopped listening as her teeth rotted, her mind feral and streetwise.

Some scars won’t close with prayer or hope no amount of iodine or soap,

stitched by pocket change.


She asked me to take her picture. “Get a good one,” she says

She didn’t like the first one. “I’m the Secret President;

my picture will keep you out of trouble.”


At 7 11, I buy her Hot Cocoa and some Ho Ho’s, me too. We laugh in the way that only two crazies seeing each other’s crazy in a grin can. Hopefully, you’ll understand.


Alice used to swing in the schoolyard, boys hoping her skirt floats on the upswing.

She was the best giggling runner on her block, faster than her brother by a couple of sidewalk squares.


Now, Alice sleeps on your street tucked in by I don’t give a fuck

And I look at her picture to keep me out of trouble.

 

A poet, writer father of a poet. writer, son of an incidental poet who gave me much to write about... and life.

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