Prammed over the cracks, I was the pride

of my neighborhood sidewalk, until the neighbor girl

cut my golden curls, which never grew back,

and I became a has-been before I knew

I was the prima in the first place,

replaced by darling baby twin sisters

paraded proudly in their double stroller

camouflaging me from my community:

my street lost a pretty good baby

like junking a car with a tankful of gas.

Glacier knocking, I compass toward the high land

not fortified enough by locks

and insurance against confusion—

somewhere the next Noah is building his ark.