Once my mother left me at someone else's home. I counted the flash of headlights, everynight for two weeks against the window. A five year old's shadow stretches on regardless of a lit influence, or a specialised orangery. Let's not pull punches here, steal my good-night-kiss. When my thongs floated down that river to a saltier openess. I was afraid to tell her later; I landed in a crate of bottles playing ping-pong. Shoeless, the puddles of red kept me sliding. As the table became covered with cane-spiders, and the hammock swung empty to our yard's widening. What would all of the late-night prospectors say? About that naked silhouette head patting my fever. Not a single word mind you, they don't ever pray. They want to pocket away your innocence. Sell it back so gracious meteor streak wish quick. Shooting stars are for dreamers and the observant. My dreams are a pair of brown and tan thongs cork floating the mighty Pacific Ocean. Rest stops for the occasional migrating Sea-bird. I am no longer waiting, and I prefer a good boot. Any day, to a pair of bobbing boy's slippers. Because, those who wait for change, never do.