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.m.
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sandals
the giggling photograph child said
come here, why don't we write a story
and you wanted to appease her,
but all your stories were already told (too old) or
sad.
what could we possibly write, you implored her,
your voice cracking a little, like a bit of blue plastic under
some careless foot
she was smiling without all of her teeth,
and you, with your two full rows,
thought she shouldn't be doing that,
no, it isn't appropriate
but her skin was dark from all her neighborhood adventures
and her stories were not all old or told
or even sad.
and just then she
wrinkled her nose in a miniature laugh
but somewhere you knew it wasn't miniature at all,
but the right size,
bigger and more real than any laugh
you had cast out
in years.
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