Why do you need so much attention, Miss Underwood

In the days before the end of lovelyladylesslullabys…

Before the rappingrapturetapping of rhythmic feline coos to docile—ghostly—delight.

Before green dawns rose in ink-pressed tears, and questions whispered themselves by candlelight at the edges of midnight.

Before the roustabout arguments, circling like devils in eidetic eidos— and before the bite. The bite that made Before into After.

When poison poured— poured through blood, through pores, through sweat and sleep—

Dreaming aromatic phantoms of dirty poems typed into being.

Before men were boys. And happy thoughts could make us fly.

When selfish Sundays bathed us in sunlight.

Crabapples. Puddle-jumping. Sore bellies. No regrets.

When wars were fought with stick guns and sound effects— “Hey! I got you!”—

And streetlights called us home.

And answers came wrapped in poems, folded into the spine of Where the Sidewalk Ends.

But now— After.

Wars still rage with invisible bullets.

Launched by foreign powers and bad economic plans.

And now—

Suitors arrive as soft-lit ghosts, shaped by algorithms and glossy profiles—

taglined defenders of anti-existential prowess, selling hollow hope in lonely rooms lit only by the dim blue glow.

And now, Miss Underwood—

your oily tears, dried by soft fingertip touches—

are the price I pay for being saved from that glow