Roll wide. 

Roll bona fide. 

Roll under the gumball tree

until you are that sticky- 

gooey mixture: hard on the

outside, earnest once they start

chewing. Careful not to chomp;

careful you don't sprawl across the grass, cackle

like those late-night rom-com

chicks–the crazy ones they chuck

into episode 3 so the guys can

remember how much they miss their exes. 

You’re not lying. 

No, you’re that chef on Gordon Ramsay’s 

cooking show everyone

thought would win until it turned out that

every cake had a rotting rear and

every cherry, a prickly pit. 

It hurts to acknowledge that college

is coming up and you seek to slip

from the masses, flail

from friendships that your 

loose tongue simply could not pin down. 

All that anyone thinks about nowadays is legacy. 

Will they carry your slouch of depression

or stride of hubris?

You’ll reunite in ten years, 

tied together by whispers of

adolescence: broken compasses with no bearing

on who actually went to Goldman Sachs

and who became a janitor.