When you were three you wanted to be an astronaut.
You knew that once you graduated from school you’d
be so smart NASA would seize you as soon as your
teachers let you go, and in a few short years,
most of which would be spent traveling in space,
your own two feet would be touching Saturn’s soil.

A time came, however, when you looked up at our milky way
and no longer felt a magnetic pull to the stars.
Earlier that morning you had passed your Fire Station and realized
how talented you’d be at driving a glossy, red truck.
Plus, you already owned a Dalmatian named Liesel.

A few years later you blew eleven candles off your birthday cake
and discovered your unquenchable love for baking.
The next few days you concocted muffins, sweets, pastries,
declaring confidently that one cup of baking soda would make
your cupcakes bigger and more delicious than a meager teaspoon.
(Your siblings gagged at the salty pungency but all
you detected was a more fulfilling flavor)  

When baking grew repetitive, you saw yourself as a writer.
You sat at a picnic bench dappled with chipped, white paint
beneath a willow that wept stories of lost heroes
and powerful wizards named Henry and Jon.
Your writing would be successful enough, and you’d cultivate
a profit to support yourself and a family.

But, at thirteen it became quite clear that the time
had come to start acting like a grown up.
Your class took a field trip to the New York Stock Exchange
and you conceded that a life of educated guesses would have to do.
Surely, with time, a monochromatic desk would excite you.

As the sun rose you’d put on your formal suit,
your eyes still swollen shut from a night of little sleep
And only once the moon hung tauntingly above your head
would you be able to step out of your slightly scuffed shoes
and pull off your black, striated socks.