5: Reflections on the ground

I sold my banjo for beer and Raman
Fifty dollars for the granular crunch
that sticks between the teeth
reminding for days that it's uncooked
uncensored, unrequited desire.

But when I was five,
five, five. Five and smiling on jungle gyms
With sun sticking to my forehead
and dirt clinging to my socks
I walked past the cans and plastic wrappers
that today I grope for
and all the day I let memories of string sounds slip through
groggy wooden ears.
And at 5, everyday, walking home,
I listened to the bitter chords being struck.

I sold my banjo for beer cans and Raman bags
that now lay empty on my apartment floor
and the riffs aren't going, the floor not creaking from dance
in fact, it barely moves.

The floor doesn't sing songs to silent bodies or screaming souls
It's too noisy.

But when I was five they pounded and laughed--
Heavy sighs and crater sized cracks
But when I was five the strings set me off balance--
space-walk life with all the giggles loosely hanging off the sides
But when I was five!
But when I was five?
When I was five
I was a stupid little kid.