Sour apple fuzz
tingles as it melts,
flooding the reservoir
across my 9-year-old tongue—
pure sugar the color of neon
olives, poured from a packet
that fits neatly in my pocket
at recess. A leaping chest
I can barely keep up with
follows down the slide,
between the monkey bars,
beneath the clouds at my feet
at the top of each swing.
Fear is waiting
in the back of the closet,
behind the door to the basement,
next to beady, glowing eyes
dripping into a marble ashtray,
but not here, not in a million years
will it catch up to my feeble teeth,
my barely there mind
swallowing days whole, disagreeing
with the wall, with no one—
life is too sweet