Self-portrait at Seven, Seventeen

I

I flick the little banister and cause it to quiver.
I enter the attic and unleash a dust storm.

I fashion a chandelier from tape, half a doily,
and string. I ignore that it drapes onto

the kitchen table and chairs. I contemplate
the dishwasher. I leave it alone. I walk

my fingers up the stairs. I skip through
the wall to the green plastic bedding on which

I place the harvested feast: I arrange four
lemons around a pizza. I come up with a trick

for spelling “Massachusetts.” I believe that
pilgrims and Protestants are all the same, that

they all wear buckled shoes. I know as much
about my family as they know about me, and

possibly more. I forget about the cosmic room
outside the dollhouse window, though I love it

there because of the baby raccoons
I once found and think I’ll find again.

II

I scrounge for five quarters. I examine my
leaky ceiling. I look away from it. I tell myself

not to look at the clock in hopes of getting
some sleep. I give up. I blast some Stravinsky

then turn it back down. I try to video-chat my
grandfather. I try again. I take a Sharpie

and paint “Goal: 84.2” on a napkin. I tape
it to my desk. I sigh. I laugh for sighing. I

re-read my emails. I count my chickens; I count
my blessings. I count the number of days until

the holiday. I delete spam with gusto. I ask
Damaris if she needs any laundry done. I hope

she says no. I borrow quarters. I plan a poem about
contentment. I select “Cottons and Linens.”

I write a poem about uncertainty. I remember
arriving here, handing a one to a girl lying on

the street, finding that she was just
a sleepy student, turning inwards again.