Dear Franz Kafka,
I don't know any circus tricks
but I used to do a mean back flip.
I'd practice them Wednesdays—Girls Night
at the Boys Club, although the boys still smoked out back.
My sister and I would walk home after dark,
just like the children in your story, clasping hands
for security as we hurried past lawns,
fences, the space around us shrinking,
skin brushing skin, our shoes scuffing the sidewalk.
Mother would be home, keeping supper.
After bath, I'd lie in bed
and I wouldn't sleep, I wouldn't sleep,
only listen to the fan's mechanical
clicking. I'd toss in the sheets, flipping
from stomach to back, trying to get
comfortable, and write stories in my head,
my thoughts whirling, nearly flying out the window.
I wonder if you had any nights like this?
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