but june may.

i.

i am sorry that public service announcements are somewhat ineffective. i am sorry that no matter how hard you try, you will not pass the fitness test. you cannot climb a rope. that is just silly.

ii.

i am sorry that your suspenders do not hold up your jeans. i did not know that twelve-year-old boys who are twenty-something on the outside were in need of giant elastic bands. they make large rubber bands, you know.

iii.

i am sorry that you always lose at monopoly. i am not sorry that you do not take my advice. i am sorry that you cannot breathe and the air jumps through you and you are a walking pogo stick with plastic bones. i am sorry i did not catch you, and i am sorry you have tubes up your nose.

let's pretend we are
five again, with no worries
and balls of rubber.

they dance and they crawl
onto the concrete, and they
roll down the hills of

putrid green and sad
grey. dead flowers are not easy
to forget. they are

not called forget-me-
nots; they are just called dead. dead,
with little holes in

their petals. like the
dreams of the twelve year
old boy, who will not

become a doctor,
or a scientist. he will
become a challenge.

he will play basketball
with the other boys who cannot
sleep in their beds alone.

he will plug the holes
through which the air flies.
he will never say never.

                       she asks him, "jonathan, are you okay?"
                       and he slowly moves his finger. his eyelids
                       flutter, just a tad, with such a peaceful
                       motion that even the most dainty birds could
                       not imitate. a tightrope walker could not even
                       mock the way this boy blinked, but they  had a choice.
                       he did not.