Paper World Rips

Hey, Mr. P,

I saw a paper airplane 
and remembered you.
It's been too long — 
my paper world rips;
these hands are painted with cuts.

My fingers and mouth miss the rhythm,
jittery like yours back then.
Please,
my heart is sharp.
It shoots into the sky, 
pierces heaven, 
turns clouds to rust.

My kids graduated. My lashes rained.

The wood beneath me turned to snow
when the landlord took our home, 
sold — they bleached the corner.
The blinds were torn.

I remember discovering 
my little girl's shoes
on the floor as we walked out.
I swallowed. 
My throat was glass.
My chest felt stout.

Not too long later,
the boss gripped me —
teaching was my breath.
But it was those closest to me,
with canines at my neck.

The judge was a wolf, too —
when the gavel clicked,
he sold us.
We were folded into layers of debt,
checks gutted and spent
on taxes, groceries, but not rent.

Just a tent.

I still hear the voices by the trash bin.
Those frigid screams dug in —
my chest kept its dents.

Hugging the kids, I felt the shards.
I hope they forgive me for my frail fingertips.

I wish I could thaw these eyes
and let my hands tremble
on those warm piano keys again.
I've folded.

Yours,
Mr. A