Perched on her father’s shoulder,

she can’t see her sock puppet sisters

bumping down the dirt crusted sidewalk, 
over the wailing sounds of tires or see 

 

her mother reciting the explanation of everything- 
why the traffic / why the girls’ shoes don’t match / why
they need to get to The Brothers so early. She doesn’t
understand the concept of brothers either
 

as a restaurant or a family construct. She can’t

even see her father’s confused face scrunched

like a wet bar towel, unable to ford

his wife’s narrative river.

 

No, she doesn’t want pizza.

 

All she wants is that impossibly
perfect new world, at the end of her pointing

chubby finger. That exquisite Eden that

only she can see.

 

And by the time she wants pizza,

neither will she.