She was Flapjack for a day.
Or a little French sailor

with an indigo bandana
plastered to her chest.

She doesn't even talk like Paris,
she just wants to.

Big, sepia eyes
hide behind tan shades

even though its dark already
and the sun quit for the day.

Her brother turned sixteen,
and all he got

was alcohol
from the lady with curly hair

and a heart
stuck to the fridge.

So we went to Co-Go's
and picked up a monster

and threw a hubcap around
because there was no frisbee.

And we smashed eggs
onto the three foot tall stop sign,

even though that one ginger
said it was a waste.

She doesn't usually see stars,
but this time

she clipped one in her short hair
that used to go past her shoulders

when times were young.
That's when Bandy

outlined her in black
and posted her on manila.