he walks up to me, grinning cautiously,
every footstep a careful measurement, or then gently on the floor
the posters on the wall more fragile every day,
and then their words, I watch him tear off each letter and swallow it,
and he mutters inaudible, "can I have another juice?"
so I looked down and smiled,
"no, you little shit"

from the supposition we left weeks before
the sunlight on the lens and the empty glare,
he shook them, then it seems calculated, or
"ha ha!" he shouts,
every solution he had given, the tear of his knees against the ground,
where was comfort, he wonders, or screamed every time they explained his mistake

he shouts again,
and my fingers, worn from the transition's calls, so
they had felt so delicate then,
every night reminded him to tear the sun from the sky,
the careful epic he builds,
I would recover from his laughs,
the empty music behind the fabric
so he kicked the leaves, scattered by the cars,

so when you listen as I speak,
before the excitement has left,
then if you have sat still, the caution resonating then,
I'll tell you I already drank all the juice