Sensory Youth

The taste of grass between my teeth
The sound of my parents’ late-night voices down the hallway
The feel of the hot slide on my bare legs in summer
The smell of an exploded ink pen, of a fresh box of 64 colors, a newsprint sketchpad
The purr of new corduroy school clothes
Watching a millipede roll into a tight ball when frightened
Watching the moon follow us from the back seat of the Duster
The salty mush of my boogery tears in my mouth as I cry over some injustice
My senses, as a child, so alive, so vital to my existence.
Now quieted for my focused pursuit
Of something I cannot sense.