I find among my notes
a crayon drawing
of a prancing pony
with pink and blue legs
and an upright endpiece
looking more like a black
bush than a tail.
The eyes are bull's eyes,
fierce white in a black ring.
There is no mistaking
two rudimentary horns,
pink also, protruding
from the forehead.
This is mitigated
by an assortment of red
and pink cookie-shapes
spangled over the pony's coat
and by a green box
saddled to his middle
with a pink ribbon
on which you had printed
when you were four years old
HAPPY BIRTHDAY
forgetting that on the other side
you had scribbled
MOMMY IS A DOPE!

Which reminds me of the pact
you tried to make
after announcing you were
sipping sopping soaking wet:
" When I do something bad
I'll tell you how to punish me. "

No dice.
Animal charm?
You bet
Viz., " Here, little egg,
I want to eat you! "

But I'll never
understand
what made you say,
" I'm tired
of being four.
I want to be five. "

Where to, Mistress Quickly?