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By Isabelle Ghaneh The little turtles I love them they are just so fine they come from Woolworth's twenty five cents for one they sit in a little plastic jar outside the house I wish they were mine, but they really belong to my brother just like everything else I hear Mama say to the little king we keep buying more, they keep running away don't they, my angel boy don't worry, Mama has more quarters hidden in the back of her pocket I know Mama remembers them like she can never remember that you, her sweet vanilla pudding can't stop wondering beyond the yard I see Mama laugh as she tells our blank faced Papa that the neighbors keep calling her is that the little king on the road, on the street on the highway? Mama giggles how can they both remember that the little dumpling isn't supposed to wander beyond his garden walls he's supposed to be watched by the little witch the bad seed the mean older sister the mistake that shouldn't have been born but the little witch goes to school, doesn't she? where is Mama then? Mama changes when I appear she scowls, she hisses, she stares blank faced Papa never sees he never says but the turtles keep hurriedly slipping over each others backs their little stubby legs clinging to the sides of the plastic jar they keep escaping from © Copyright 2004, Isabelle Ghaneh, All Rights Reserved. |
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Document last modified on: 09/28/2004