the poetry of Charles Fry

8 October 1996

the three things

My broken tricycle only has two wheels.
And I am scared of dark forests.
"Mama? Mama, help. I can't see."
For some reason I am underneath
and the rusted axel is deflating my heart.
"Mama? Mama, it hurts. I can't breathe."

There are only two things I am scared of.
Dark forests and being alone.
But especially being alone.
Maybe that is why I keep pedaling so fast,
so I can get away before I get two scared.

The rugged path keeps pulling me down.
He grabs my hair and scratches my back
and shouts at me to slow down or stop.
"Mama? Mama, where are you? I can't hear."

I remember one day when I used to be happy.
There are two things that especially make me happy.
Shiney red tricycles and tall green trees.

My untrained muscles are starting to tear.
"Mama? Mama, help me."

And the third would be falling asleep in a small field of roses.

Copyright © 1996 Charles Fry