I saw a picture of me, when jumping squares were chalked to the sky, left there by jet streams and understood as magic. Untailored shirt sleeves and broken skin I sat, thinking of the future- a possible dawn of thought waiting to be blanched, stored then used when needed. And now the same boy sits, sweatered and hopeful, and running out of world. I rushed to scribble a word then two on a parking ticket, hopeful to pass it through the plain that stood between me and me; until I realized I already knew what it said. And where is the good in words when rain can be made or not depending on the bidder and the cost of cheetos.