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That day they made us go to court
I wore the red and green dress I whored
for Santa, so the world could see
by the pretty cream lace collar and fancy satin
someone salvaged at least one sad child
from the trenches. The dress that itched so bad
I scratched myself lobster red, scraped away
all those false smiles kids wear
like that Christmas clown gown.
On that itchy day I whored it again.
That’s what kids do.
We wrap ourselves in their flags, play
dress up, pledge allegiance
in costume for broken family
nests, we salvage adults
with some hugs, shovel smiles.
My sister was there.
We pressed our small hands against
grand, sky-scraper glass and I asked
"Angel?
If we jump
would we be like my transformers
and fly?"
I annoyed her.
"No, Sis.
If we jump
from here, it would be dark.
We'd leave the light and you'd be stuck
in that dress. Forever."
Her words were itchy, too.
I wanted her to look at me.
She stared down
to the ground, beyond
our Looking Glass.
Her thoughts she kept far
away, like all those little cars, lost
road ants on the ground, broken
transformers rushing nowhere.