I used to fly.

When the bad people chased me on my block,
I simply lifted off and flew above their reach.
Or I’d slam around the corner on my roller skates,
faster than any mob of evil doers.

To this day, I have dreams of flying,
flying down stairs, flying above the heads of my pursuers
just as I did when I was nine. 

I can still hoola hoop like I did back then, too,
rotating my hips in sync, going longer and faster
than any other kid.
I was the super duper hula hooper, my dad said. 

The train station was around the corner from our house.
There was a little store there, too.  I’d go in sometimes when I wasn’t too scared.

Most of the time, I didn’t like to go further than the end of my block,
in sight of my house. But sometimes I would really want some
pop beads or licorice and I would go.
And I would be scared a little bit until I remembered that I could fly. 

Then I would be okay.

April is National Poetry Month. I wrote this March 15, 2009. Watercolor woman, 2020.