Tungsten Cooled From the A/C and Minimized By the Bottle

Wind squabbles with the fields of flowers;
stems sway the other way on this day
of forgetting oneself in whiskey.
Here, on these conning pastures reside
a child who chats with his older self
about anything and everything.

He talks Tonka Trucks and Iron Tank
and makes himself full on tasty tarts
while his elder sits, smiling away.
Says he was lit with starry answers
found inside a tome about nothing.
But, somehow he still learned something new.

Shoves another slice of pie inside
his mouth and tells himself these little
tales about how he was the smart-bulb—
how his smarts illuminated the
rooms of every single dark classroom
he stepped into—no matter how big.

This child persists with the chatting and
doesn't notice how fat he is get-
ting, to the point his pants start ripping.
Then the whiskey decides to wear down
into the bladder, triggering that
effect of waking up from a daze.

Stays while the owner traces the glass
trails on tile to a light bulb fallen
from its white, spinning, stubby-trunk tree.
This owner of organs gets up slow
and lumbers to the bathroom mirror;
that kid's adult looks back at himself, smiling.