The reds and golds the fourth floor walls’ greens and blues broken by farting silly putty Hannah’s Homemade Poos She’s not here to read the comments to rack up likes and peep the views a touch of cancer burnt out her fuse five years old or six at most Memories so ancient they’re like a ghost and all the kids I’d meet one stay then later ask “where are they?” and, “dead.” ...they’d say; you’re told don’t dwell, don’t dismay it all makes sense when you’re older— one day and that’s a lie they know its true like saying “Mountain Dew is made from mountain’s dew” I’d ask you this and little more why does that kid’s face look like it waxed a sandy floor a touch of cancer nothing more and oh so sad so little could be done for Tony who died on his toes or Cole’s four percent woes oh so little could be done they all whisper past the casket one by one little flowers in the basket and I’ll have you know it all is so to grease the wheels and shine the heels of the same two or three or ten suited, collared company men that say grandma can’t have a kidney and they’re sorry about poor Aunt Sydney “if we cover one, when will it end? We might have to cover two or three or even ten!” kids don’t have jobs don’t pay bills can’t shake down a kid til your coffer fills so “no fancy innovations with their bells and whistles you can use old chemo with its thorns and bristles no gene testing or targeting for you here’s a cup of pills swallow—don’t chew we’d make it better but we know you can’t sue.” meanwhile I recall more than a few who might still be here if they’d sprung for something new and they could its very clear posting record profits year over year but kids are too costly their shareholders fear there’s no ROI so little children die and while adults ring their bell four year olds learn about heaven and hell from angels themselves Its all quite tragic its rather grave news I prefer keeping out my minds’ eyes’ views but I won’t stay quiet to this day I refuse. She was on my floor. I had a jar of Hannah’s Homemade Poos.