i don’t fit in here,
this suburban-sports-mom place–
ice skates and hockey pucks,
wealth dripping from
concession-stand ketchup
onto Gucci bags,
iPhones snapping
pictures of perfection
(pictures i will never take)

she wants to be a part of it all,
not for one second
jaded by the disorganization,
the preferred treatment of boys,
the simplicity of the lesson
she’s too skilled for and
that costs as much as i make in a day

i want to give it to her
and take her home
all in the same moment,
to tell her she won’t lose her childhood
if she spends her afternoons
playing in the cul-de-sac
with the homeschooled,
underexposed neighbors

but her eyes?
her weeks of anticipation?
i can’t take back this gift,
this inherent joy
that will carry her across the ice
and into her miniature version
of the dream
we all have inside ourselves