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.