eight.

I'm thinking a poem about choices.
I haven't written it down yet,
still tasting the possible words
on my tongue, in my throat.
Newly blonde—a lesson to
always read the label, keep the box,
follow the directions.
Accidents can happen, otherwise.
And that itself is a road not chosen,
like the one of the curly-haired boy
on the bus in front of me, in his
Transformers cap—backwards,
as he listens to heavy metal
on an ipod that matches his pink polo shirt.
His sleeves are turned up, and
I'm on my way to buy hair dye.
I don't ask where he's going
right now, but I make up stories, poems
to explain him.