Me sad. Me who love cookie cannot taste
with tongue of felt to cardboard pasted flat.
Me cram and stuff, but puppet throat sewn shut.
Delicious cookie just crumble. Me waste!
Me not feel cookie, not see. Strange hand
creep too far up skirt of phony blue fur,
rattle plastic eyeballs round. Cookie blur.
Me hate what move inside, not understand.
So if little children me supposed to love
(me teach them take away — leave plate of crumbs!),
why slowest boy so quick to think me dumb?
Why sweetest girl not what me dreaming of?
Someday in rocket ship me fly away,
eat all of moon, wash down with Milky Way.
William Breen teaches English at Anoka-Ramsey Community College in Cambridge, Minnesota, and lives in St. Paul.
First published in Measure, Volume 2 (2007)