I Wish She'd Said Goodbye

She’s 11-years old with a soul wild

as a thicket bush with a single purple

flower guarded by thorns. Mom and dad beat

each other, fists swollen with apologies.

In the peace of the night, she packed her attitude

t-shirts, fruit gummies, and goodbye letters

in her bag of teenage angst -- no one would take

time to read her words.

Her feet dragged in the dawn of tractor trailer

drivers picking up speed while rocks hopped

away from heavy shoes. Two miles out

she stepped into the wilderness of stale coffee

grounds, snack cakes, and Tammy the graveyard

cashier. With no green gold lining her jean

pockets, Tammy sent her away unamused

to float aimlessly with suicidal moths --

tired of living in discrimination against

winged things, only wanting to make love

to the goddess of white light.

Little Debbie’s crinkled smile inched

onto our heroine’s shoulder, Raisin Creme pie

filled her face, grungy fingers caked

in predation said “Go on, eat it.”

So she did, ravenous for mom’s Sunday

pancakes with warm syrup -- it’s time

to go home. A polite “Thank you” spoken

through the crackle of plastic tossed over

the shoulder like tomorrow’s Missing

Children’s Report --Ma’am, it hasn’t

been 24 hours yet. She slid her angst

up her shoulders like polyester, but she made peace

with it as she turned toward home.

Raisin Creme pies can’t understand

“Leave me alone.” Screams bring life to stale

coffee, but her story will be lost in the jungle

that is the control room -- endless hours

of film to pilfer through, we’re too busy.

We’re too busy to ask Little Girl Lost why

she’s meandering through aisles of shelved

expiration when her life is just beginning.

We’re too busy following the damn system

to say “Fuck it. That’s someone’s child.”

No, we wait. We wait for Little Girl Lost

to pray for help for at least a 24-hour

time span. We wait for someone’s hard

heart to break her spirit. Then we act

as the numbers soar by the wing of a decimal.

Singles become hundreds become millions.

We pity third worlds because that’s their

culture -- savages can’t be taught civility.

When will we learn that green envy does not

make us gods? I’ll never learn of Little Girl Lost

until her goodbye letters are part of the morning

broadcast script.