We always thought this whole thing would be simpler,

Dodging anvils from the sky and drawing tunnels on cement walls.

But those cartoons got it all wrong.

Albaqurque wasn’t a wrong turn, turning seventeen was.

And now we funnel towards the end of something as we try

To form it and name it,

Poke it and prod it, 

Kill it and maim it,

Prove its importance

And tuck it under our bed  

Where those monsters hide.

It might just be mirrors under there.