inside the beginning / No.2

with time and effort

I might remember certain

details of my crib.

I’m sure I had one.

If so, it was made of wood;

not the expensive kind of wood,–– 

the rich, dark, hard-lacquered oak

one might find up the highlands to a kid

with Phillips Andover predetermined in its brain.

the slats of my crib were set wide enough

for me to stick my earliest head through.

It was dangerous. my crib was dangerous.

It was a fire trap. its bedding could’ve

smothered me.

a furry animal might’ve stepped over me

sniffing my pink fleshy dome

as if it was a ball of a foreign substance.

my old crib’s illegal now.

It wasn’t intentional for it to become that way

but who knew any better?

anyway, what's the use of adjudicating

my crib's shoddy construction now?

nobody's left living to plead guilty anymore.