She talks as fast as a speeding bullet
her hand gestures could clean the windows of a 60 storied building
and when she forgets her medication she flies off to the moon.

I pushed her through the neighborhood in a plastic wheelbarrow
we played hide and seek in my Dodge caravan
she slept in the crawlspace between me and the mattress,
now she lectures me about things and people she can’t possibly know.

There’s one pill at 6pm another pill before bed and one at 6am
she seldom gets up before noon, what type of life for a 16 year old
but she has such grandiose plans-Europe, travel, etc. etc. etc.

I seldom sleep as sound as I should and I’m getting old
every new day gets longer, the clock doesn’t stop there’s never a pause
like walking in a room filled with precious glass with your eyes closed
something is going to get broken, there’ll be shards on the floor

She sees all her problems as animated super villains
one day it is Brainiac, the next it is Godzilla and Mothra
there’s an endless supply of monsters on the back lot of her emotions

Sometimes we laugh and joke and everything is fine
then in a flash bombs start to go off and there’s no place to hide
she threaten the sky with fingers scratching the clouds
I huddle inside myself clutching our shared memories she’s forgotten.

Martin Strohm is a retired freelance journalist. His last book of poems entitled Closed on Sunday was published in 1999.