One last item begged permission to speak
As if for itself, a white plastic rocking horse
Left outside a brown house in the aspens.
If I speak, it spoke, I assume permission
Has been granted me, I assume there is
A me, specifically. Late spring snow,
Flakes alternately fluff or specks of ice,
Scattered through the barely budding trees.
My life has not been pastoral nor idyll, but
Hard in its way, nearly immobile, ill-shaped
As I am. I am not a toy. I have never been
Used as one. I have no idea how I got here,
Though I imagine I look out of place, weird,
If not outright ridiculous, a cracked piece
Of weather-durable artifice between a pond
And an empty home on a precipice. I don't
Have anything else to say, really. I was just
Jealous of other things that had been given
Temporary speech, temporary thoughts,
Temporary means to question this. This.
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