What shattered the cap of my fountain pen?
I felt saddened. I opened the window
for a breath of air. I wrote a letter.
I wanted the warm spring wind to be in it,
and the lacy green weeds, the smell of distant
rains from Missouri, the confetti of elm seeds.

My car! My brand new car! I shouted.
There was a devil’s food cake with a pen
where the candle should be. My distant
name was Stevey. I was 5 years old, window
high, in blue shorts. My car was blue; it
was a Pontiac convertible. There was a letter

taped on its hood. The letter
said Happy Birthday. Pedals made the seeds
crush under hard rubber wheels – it
had a steering “O” to burn its pen
scribblings on the sidewalk. It had no windows
and no brakes, so I wasn’t allowed long distances

or coasts down hills toward the
zoo in sunshine. Marjorie burned the letters
from my mother. She was my window,
my aunt; she took a picture of seeds
in my hair; she took the pen
and wrote a poem about how it,

the wind, looked with my eyes closed. It
was hard to belong to Marjorie. The distant
picture she took of me, the burning pen,
the cake, my eyes. Happy 5 years, letter of
leaves and sun shining, the seeds
of school in only five weeks, the school’s windows

visible from the porch. Brown shoes and a window,
she said. Little brown shoes of your own. It
will be fine, she said. Walk a circle in the seeds
on the playground, she said. Walk the distances
in your new brown shoes, round and round, the letter
“O” and the letter “C.” Practice as you would with this pen.