Un-True Story
Juice box straw broke the camel's back.
We both say please. The shorter, cuter one wins.
She's sunny; I feel my own rumble.
Balled hands could bite the dirt in rage.
Shod feet remember how to stamp.
Someone over thirty is shouting in my head:
"I want juice, too!" She calls it, "Elmo,"
And isn't even three.
So that must be me.
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