The Peanut-Butter Cookie Poem by Morgan Michaels

-What happened to him?
-How should I know. It was a long ago.
-A memory. Awful. Is consciousness just memory going 'round and 'round?
-Memory and will.Erase memory, you still have will.
-No, memory is different. I can see him now.
Are you sure you didn't dream it all up? That it wasn't all just a a dream?
Sure, I'm sure. It's one of those things. I was five or six. It was a very cold day. No dream, it was Scalding cold.
Scalding cold?
bearable if you had a thick coat. My breath shot out in plumes. It was New Year's day. Everyone was excited and hung from the night before. There wasn't a cloud in the sky. I was happy.
-Hm. Where was this, all?
Philly. Broad Street.
Odd.
-We were watching the parade. My first. It was magical.- legions of folks in tights, strumming banjos. The sequins gleamed in the sun...blinding!
-Wow!
-...and fake tail feathers- everyone had them.
-Oh?
-and the banjos, strum-strumming. And the strange, hollow-sounding horns-south to north.
-Jeez. Where were the parents?
-Gone. Maybe I repressed them.
-When he came by?
-Uh-huh. I was on the curb in a crush of faces.
-Wearing?
-An urchin suit from David Copperfield. From Central Casting. He could've been Peter Pan's understudy. Barefoot, too, I think. Even given the cold.
-How old....?