Let me complain. 
The woman I thought wise wasn’t. 
So what’s new? 
That answer is writ on my palm, 
a stupefaction of faint paths marking 
my future in remembrance of my past. 
I am four and fierce in a puddle of mud. 
An inaugural plunge? 
Newly discovering I am stuck? 
Not the last time, little plump. 
The schema of life insists 
we feel our forward motion. 
Even you who float through your days. 
O sleepwalkers, awake. 
It’s suppertime. 
You are more hungry than you know.