Paper airplane decrees

Fold it up tightly,

say goodbye with a wave

and a salute. The airways are busy

with our old-school traffic.

The phone is vibrating off the hook,

but my hands prefer the familiar

folds of college-lined paper, ready

to fly across classrooms to your backpack’s

waiting pocket. How many stick people

does it take to make up a small paper town,

parading around our eager hands? Pen pals,

doodle dudes, form friends.

Write with ink so the letters outlast

the next four years of education,

the switching and swapping of friends

like cheerleader fashion. Will we talk

on the other side? Our stick figures will

stick around, nestled inside the leafy clouds.

Another letter,

The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

the envelope tattooed

like the walls of Buenos Aires

with sketch and flair. The substance

rolls off the mind, but the colors stretch into tomorrow

—don’t forget to write back!

They all thought it was the war flags

of love, but we laughed and signed

our names before sending them

into the metal collecting tin.

If at first no one succeeds

You all know the one,

the girl who attracts thunder

with her lightning strikes. The girl

who trails behind the guy more interested

in his shoes than the female population, eager

to be nothing more than a name in the yearbook—

comfortably unnoticed.

But the others pressed in,

trampling the lockers and lunch trays

like bulls, all madly fighting against the lure

of the red flag.

But just because the others couldn’t

climb the tower didn’t mean I couldn’t try

everything else—take that one shirt from the closet,

the one with the robot disguised as a dog.

She’ll cave to such stark cuteness.

Unleash the arsenal—

take note of the worlds I built

with plastic blocks, the robots that fill the streets like trees.

But she could have been anyone—

thunder will follow any burst of lightning.