No time for tea and sympathy
heading straight for the brink of sixteen
it’s been over a year, suddenly realizing,
since playing at some imagining.

How long it’s been since sticks and arrows
how long since paper planes
how long since flags and carboard houses
how long since spying games.

No time for books arranged in series, for
each year in between, growing up more
suddenly standing at the library door
finding the characters two years younger or more.