The Next Line

We raced down the sidewalk in ’98
the car was coming fast
I stopped too late
but he told me to go
so very slow
and that’s the part
you never wanted to know
just let me explain
wrong once again
turn back around
I don’t want to hear another sound
the wheels went round and round
over the bumps
and the stamp of ’77
maybe they’ll listen
when I turn eleven

at one point
I found a flower
one I could stare at
hour after hour
drawn to it
surely by the force
of a superpower
it was the first of few
and I never knew
the last goodbye
was for forever
the soil in the ground
never went back together

what about the times
I could sip on my milk
until a quarter to eight
run out the door
and never be late
tie up my shoe
run in circles with you
before throwing on a sweater
to breathe in
my favourite weather

another story was written
in a different book
something on the side
it brought me out
when it brought me back
and these pages
were now a part of me

hey
I think we had more to say
let’s go back for another
I’ll be the big brother
grab the string in the forest
and tie it around your finger
so you don’t forget
to let the trees fall down
before we leave

one night it all felt so stale
despite all the mail
it was a case of too many
and not enough
there was so much
inside my head
call it a maze
without an exit
so I put in a request
and a month later
I felt it
in my chest
there was an angel
on my shoulder

it was familiar
a magical touch
that I had felt before
I had seen it
I had seen you
is it possible
for a plot to repeat itself
while the characters change
and the settings fade away

can I ask the dots
if they all connect
maybe reach out
to a higher power
sitting behind a mirror
and ask them
to show me their hands
or are they too busy
pulling the strings

am I right to think
no
am I right to believe
that one thing
leads to another
that one thing
prepares you for the next
or is it all in my head
like an explanation
that is never explained
or a flower
that is never picked
or a glass of milk
that is never finished

sometimes it feels like
I’m waiting for a miracle
that will never come
or for a person
that has already left
and I don’t know
if the story I tell
is the one
that is supposed to be told

I read the pages
that have been written
and shake my head
at the penmanship
because it’s a story
that only makes sense
when you read it backwards

the clues were everywhere
almost every line
foreshadows the next
but now I’m all caught up
and the next line isn’t written
until it happens
so I worry
that the ink has run dry
and the remaining pages
will be ripped out

tell me
am I the author
am I the co-author
or am I just the kid
who raced down the sidewalk in ’98
and grew up as a character
in a story
that I don’t know how to tell.