patch it up

bobby, it's getting late.
the sun has closed her
sad eyes and the sky
is washed blue.

carry those stilts over here.
the greedy fingers
(swollen from cheetos
and never having felt
a single written page)
are clutching the wood
of a tree
that used to live
on that median
that used to be a woods

somewhere
on the other side
of a couple thousand miles
through the sore earth
there are tears mixing
with the dust on cheeks
and swollen bellies
who've never seen
the food bobby calls a snack.

bobby, dinner's already on the table-
the stilts stumble faster
and the resigned ground
gives,
and bobby falls in confusion-

oh, honey.
it's alright-
we'll just build a sidewalk there.