Sev en a.

m., the u sual morn ing line up.

Start on the chores, sweep ’til the floor’s all clean.

Pol ish and wax, do laun dry, mop and shine up.

Sweep a gain, and by then it’s, like, sev en fif teen.

And so I’ll read a book, or may be two or three; I’ll add a few more paint ings to my gal ler y; I’ll play gui tar, and knit, and cook and ba sic ’ly just won der, “When will my life be gin?”

Then af ter lunch, it’s puz zles, darts and bak ing,

pa per ma ché, bit of bal let and chess,

pot ter y, ven tril o quy, can dle mak ing,

then I’ll stretch, may be sketch, take a climb, sew a dress.

And I’ll re read the books, if I have time to spare.

I’ll paint the walls some more; I’m sure there’s room some where.

And then I’ll brush, and brush, and brush, and brush my hair.

Stuck in the same place I’ve al ways been.

To mor row night

the lights

will ap pear,

just

like they do

on my birth

day each year.

What

is it like

out there

where they glow?

Now that

I’m old er,

Moth er might just

let me go...