I’d told you before

     eleven times.

Remember that old brown bag?

     The ugly bag with the frayed straps.

I peeped thread coming

undone after one week.

I’d told you before

     don’t pay full price for new things.

     Tarnishing

     is what happens when no one

     is looking.

Well, we had to be eight,

     or nine years old,

     maybe ten even,

when those crumbled receipts

and gum wrappers fell on to

the table.

     Did they tell you the table

     belonged to the guy who

     lived there prior?

The bewilderment of your youth,

     a stunted milestone

     exposed in sixty-five seconds.

I have told you before

     thirteen times.

But the last one

words melted from my lips,

     like pine needles,

     tight as brake pads,

you decided it was best

     or better

for your sanity to

put cotton balls in your ears.