Someone’s Been Sleeping in My Bed

Where’s my gingham tablecloth.
Where’s my Michelangelo’s Naked
David apron. Where’s my garden
and my marigolds and my pink ranunculi.
Where’s my conversational Latin.
Where’s my Froggy-Went-a-Courtin’
sheet music. Where’s that dulcimer
and my training in Irish stepdancing.
Where’s my swing set. Where’s my
shovel. Where’s my other shovel.
Where’s my yard and where’s my
kitchen. Where’s casino online my dinner. Where’s
my hunger, my appetite. Where’s
the mint and where’s the poison ivy
and where’s the scars on my shoulders
from the same sunburn three summers
in a row. Where’s the summer. Where’s
my imaginary lemonade stand and lemons.
Where’s my punishment. Where’s my
omen. Where’s my haftarah portion
and my wild cherry cough drops. Where’s
my pool pass. Where’s my sleeping bag.
Where’s my field trip permission slip
and where’s the hand to collect it.