Eight

At eight years old

time spent awake is treasured and

sleep is a punishing trial.

We skirmish in the dusk in feral combat,

willing the sun not to set.

Street lights are harbingers of an outcome we grieve

every 24 hours.

At eight years old

we squeeze every second of visibility

from the daylight.

Like paint left in a roller,

it drips down our arms and hips

and pools between our filthy toes

before disappearing into the cracks in the sidewalk.

We fight the bath, too

that will wash away the hard-won

dirt and blood;

the badges of honor awarded for a day well-lived

at eight years old.

Copyright 2019 – Laurie Marshall

This poem is being posted as part of the #100dayproject. Find out more here.