On the edge of her bed her eyes glimmer,

wanting her words to catch smoke, 

to streak across skies in contrail exhalation

NOT

drop like pennies in a fish tank (full of  plastic hopes)

What would it be like to really matter?

she sighs on top of a caramel cake and wishes for fishes at the edge of her bed 

for  African frogs and fairy shrimp and goldfish with bulging eyes…

to be famous

glimmering

near the meadow pool by her home polliwogs stir unspoken dust amongst mosses 

so much so…

they go unnoticed