It’s Summer. We’re fourteen.
It’s lunchtime but we’re rolling a blunt on the 
park bench because we’re the feral children of 
the nineties. We walk through the grass – puff, 
puff, pass – until that’s gone. Light a couple of 
loosies so we can have something to do with 
our hands while we talk.

It’s Summer. We’re fourteen.
We pluck dandelions at the park after getting 
high for lunch and tossing cigarette butts at 
the curb. There’s so many and we’re excited 
as hell to blow their white fluff into the air as 
if we’re dusting the field with hundreds of our 
tiny wishes.

I’m not sure what I wished for or if any of it 
came true, but I rarely ever see dandelions 
any more or children making wishes on seeds. 
They’re inside somewhere rewiring their 
brains to get dopamine from a screen.

It’s Summer. I’m out hunting dandelions.
I’m wishing for the days before the world 
convinced us that magic was a weed.