I am standing by the pop machine
at the gas station, drinking a root beer.
It cost a dime, my whole allowance.
My bike—a J.C. Higgins three-speed—
looks cool. I just washed it
and waxed the blue fenders. 
Grown-ups are moving around me
in kind of a fog. Actually I feel sorry
for grown-ups, with their neckties,
their dark jackets and serious talk.
I am wearing low-top Keds. 
Their shoes are hard and gigantic. 
Try climbing a tree in those shoes.
How am I supposed to know
that an old, white-haired guy,
a grown-up, is watching me
from his desk in the future,
writing down every move I make.
Why would somebody even do that?
If there’s one thing I don’t like
it's writing. Writing and division. 
This root beer is actually excellent.
It's a hot day. My fenders are waxed.

​

—from the Rattle Chapbook Prize winner, Cheap Motels of My Youth