Nestor is a round third-grade kid, with wild eyes that
quiver in their sockets. He cackles,
gushing streams of neon diction. I try to contain him,
to catch his words as they come,
bright parrots flown the coop, talons out.
When I ask him for an adjective
he writes poop, as he has the last three tries.
I remind him we’re making poems, and he rears back,
then writes golden as a modifier. I want to write it too,
over and over— I want to join his third-grade
Bacchic frenzy, because half the screwed-up
insane contortions his face is making
remind me of my last night with you. A favorite place?
He writes Candyland, and then adds Dead.