his milk, his artwork on paper, a sweet pear, himself, he screamed when his hands caught the fall and scratched the sidewalk, I yelled at the sidewalk for hurting him and he laughed through his tears, he dropped a few books after begging for one more, and then one more after one more passed, he dropped a kernel of corn in his bib, he slipped off his shoes as his feet dangled from the seat, he threw all of his colorful paper after placing them on his head, he let the sheets slide apart and teasingly sway as they fell.
I met a man at Merz Apothecary last summer. He had a headache. He saw me entering from the revolving doors and he called, trouble! He asked me who wrote "In the room the women come and go. Talking of Michelangelo." He recommended I read Eric Fromm. That is when I tried to love and loved and still love and it was a curse.
He emailed me back telling me not to drop all the things kids do.
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