two large boxes, scissors, cut out, cut around, masking tape, lamp, keyboard, pencils, paper, cushion = child’s office
children’s legs are a palimpsest of bumps, thumps, scrapes, scratches, cuts, scabs, bruises, band aids
fighting against a last climb, struggle push keep a cadence that sits somewhere from your core and thighs (you feel it when you know it) imagining you’re a swan on water but really penguin shuffling on ice. He floated flew past (“yeah, no fucking computer on his back” your immediate cyclist’s excuse-on-demand). I was like that once. I thought. Twenty seven years ago.