Poems About Austin

Mr. Morrocco reads me stories
after dark, switching voices with characters
while the evening ticks away like cofee
getting stale. He is a grandfather clock,
or sometimes pumpernickel bread. I am
a tiny frill of pink eyelet lace, like
a sea shrimp, six years old.

Outgrowing this fancy, I move to Montana.
In the summer, we barbeque hamburgers adultly,
wearing sundresses and white leather sandals,
scratching our names with our keys into
the national park picnic tables.
Reading poems about Austin.
Poems about Houston, China Grove,
poems about Chocolate Bayou.

Years ago, I used to think
my friend Mr. Tomato Sonaros
would be the one to collect me
after I finished school. Later
I found out he was imaginary, too.