even middle school means in-between

the sound comes in tinny and wholesomely
empty, but I don’t
mind. I can pretend
better than the other kids

and match the silver crayons with
awkward little sentences
when I’m called out for
faking a yawn–

mind you, there’s no such
squealing dog
but your own leftover wildness
hiding behind some back door

and even that went to bed
with the loons, breaking the sky
with fearless petals and a tinkering
bracelet I hushed years ago.

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