It is so cold out that I haven't been outside the past two days. If you're like me and want a little bit of escapist poetry, here's a little something I wrote. It's called, When We Play House, I Want to Be the Princess. How about you? The inspiration for this poem comes from two different places. One was a viral video from CBS Sunday Morning about an old man who became best friends with a four-year-old girl after she waved to him and said hello. I don't usually get attached to viral stories like that, but this one really stuck with me for some reason. The guy had just lost his wife and he was very sad and lonely and kind of needed something like this to happen to him. And it did. The second thing that inspired this poem is sometimes I don't know if you felt this way I certainly have in this society. When you're in your teens and your twenties, you can kind of feel like a pupa, like the butterfly form of yourself hasn't emerged yet. And you kind of want to be experienced and wise, but you're also afraid to lose that sort of openness to change and willingness to embrace a lot of different ideas and identities that comes with being young. So here's when we play house, I want to be the princess. How about you? I want to be the old man skipping stones. The sun at its highest wallop, the waves agradiant from white through brown, alone. My marrow aches. I throw a potosky stone that could fit into the divot of my shoulder. It hits nine times, the bitter of the man, the more the bounces. But I am lighter now knowing the taste of mill foil and poor man's lobster garnished with garlic powder since my lover left. I had a lover, unbeknownst to you, you who waddled up, plunked in a few stones, giggled until you felt my hands pushed down your five-year-old shoulders and your knees followed, my wrinkled palms warm and soft like pizzo. I must have shocked you with my smoker's voice, bent knees and elbows, argyometry, words like bullshit on my tongue. I had no books with pictures, no juice and pretzels, no quilts of cows over the moon. But you noticed me. You a fudge at ordinary time, a fickle firm, frustrating feelings, whining when you want to, knowing when you need a nod, you of once wases and could of bins and never thoughts. Will you remember me? A vulnerable question, but hope looks like your Sunday visits, swinging the screen door, a handful of tulips from your mother, liking your coffee, milky and men black, getting two skips, then three, replenishing my greater hope. When you return with children of your own smearing sunscreen and watching through big brown glasses, their square knees and tiny fingers grasping at sea glass, new and approaching, will you remember you? Thanks everybody, stay warm and I'll come back with new videos soon.