“I’ll tell you one thing.
I hate it,” she said, slamming
The pages together,
Aloud, to no one in particular.
The tyranny of canonization
Had fueled her mind to wander
To a time forgotten without
A catalyst or crutch
To lean and reflect on her
Days in summer cottages
And of the neighbor boy with
Bright burning hair and snuffed
Out eyes rambling nonsensically
To no one in particular. She
Remembered the crevices of
The walkway and of stubbing her
Foot on the basement staircase.
Obliviously dragging blood across
The yellow-tiled kitchen, with
No one to reprimand or
Demand rhetorical answers to
Perfunctory question such as
“Are you okay?” Or
“Are you hurt?” Two ways
Of approaching the same circumstance.
All this, because of a text.
Disagreement, so intrinsic;
So irreconcilable
And the boy, eye to the fence,
Raised on tip toes, peered
Through the window before
A twig fell to a leaf behind him
And he ran silently home.