Alice kicked the can
with such impossible fury and rage,
he didn't know what to make of her
anymore. Being 12 and wise
seemed like a blessing to him, blind,
but somewhat of a tragedy

to those aggregating (at the) time.
And losing (battle, firmament, ground)
with throngs of rusted feet marching at the back,
Mr. Tithers quietly swept the front porch
of the store, while Alice kicked the can.

Tin cats meowed
while Alice kept a keen watch
on the fence, waiting for a sign
of the second coming. Them not pointless
bustled about while Alice stirred
her beans searching for less meaning.

This—only found on the slate faces
toodling by on the bumps
of daily boredom and purpose—
was what Alice meant when she woke
that morning, and decided she would
give the world a mind.