There's a girl on the playground.
If you're her classmate
and a girl, corner her,
and join her club.
If she protests, the password
is broccoli. The password is always
broccoli. If you are her classmate
and a boy, threaten to pull her earrings out
and slap her. If she protests,
the password is sorry. The password
is always sorry.
Take her home. Go to your room
and jump on the bed with her,
tell her she's the queen,
although she'd rather be a peasant.
Kiss her under a blanket,
in the backyard,
in front of the turtles.
Then tell her someone paid you.
Stand with her on the hot cement and
burn your feet.
Buy her ice cream.
Climb through the neighbor's gardens,
ride your bikes to the cemetery,
and then learn how to drive.
Go through fields, scale the water tower,
drive all the way through high school.
Avoid the police,
don't notice her body changing,
learn to speak French to her,
softly, buy her beer,
sow your seeds in the earth.
Get your nails dirty.
Don't stop at red lights,
take her to a diner up
in the Jersey hills,
comb your hair a thousand times.
Chain smoke.
Take her dancing,
fuck her while your cat is watching,
write her a love song
and lose her in the woods,
look up at the stars,
and ask her to trust you.
Draw up the blinds,
take her to college,
make your bed, make out,
make her dinner, a feast,
macaroni and cheese,
red wine, and broccoli.
Break her heart.
The password is sorry.