Stephen Mead

It’s almost edible, this picture:

Shadows tracing water stains, the lead fringe given to fingers—

This is some woman with a parasol or perhaps a duck pond

in off-white depending on the time of day.

 

What does that child see, touch?

It matters, I know—

The windowsill’s smooth crisp chips to lick up poverty on

a view of boarded up graffiti rattling with passing cars—

 

Dad, is Mom shopping?

No. I’m not hungry.

I have this—that’s it—

a submarine & I scuba dive ’round our room, ’round

the globe well,

no, not really but

when I crawl, rest

my head here on

this spot it’s

a game that I

play.