Anderson Acres


Sticky mouthed from a lollipop
left lolling on her tongue,
she slept deeply,
as if the lolli were a Quaalude
instead of a sweet.

Only so long a child can cry
before she passes through
from pain to resolution,
from awake to a determined sleep,
escapes in dreams of soft hands holding hers.

When the Greyhound bumped
into Anderson Acres, this town
so small only a diner and feed store
denote downtown,
the small sleeper awakes.

Her tiny fingers familiar
with the handle of her red rolling suitcase,
she moves across the road
pulling her baggage
with shocking strength for a hummingbird of a girl.

Her pockets are full of lollipops
as she’s learned by age eight
to expect no sugar from the world.
She already knows,
she must carry her own.

© Julie Ayers
August 2011


About Julie Ayers

Seasoned apocaloptimist, keen admirer of well-placed words, fierce mama bear of extra special children, black belt hugger, and advocate for a fashion rebellion which elevates the most human of hearts to socially acceptable outerwear.

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