Mike Cullinane is a rare New Jersey native who has been writing for most of his life: post cards, letters, poetry, a brief journalism career, and spellbinding corporate presentations. He’s contributed to Failed Haiku, Sad Girl Diaries and anthologies published by Moonstone Art Center. After a moderately successful career, he spends most days as the project manager of his own life, serving friends and family when needed, while being mentored by a two year old.

Skipping To Kindergarten

Skipping to kindergarten under an October sun,
Deftly avoiding the sidewalk cracks.
Shoes belong on the pavement not the table tops.
Three more blocks before the crossing guard.
No thought she could vaporize before our eyes, only whiffs of ditto ahead.

Skipping to kindergarten under an October sun,
Nikes ready at Sandy Hook.
Watercolor should rule the day over grainy ships on TV.
Two more blocks before the crossing guard.
Parents speak of Mariel in whispers, kids think it’s a girls name.

Skipping to kindergarten under an October sun,
Only knees should be dirty.
Zaphorizhzhia should be in a fairy tale, instead an artillery range.
One more block before the crossing guard.
She frowns at the unruly boys, kids stay safe within the lines.

Skipping to kindergarten under an October sun,
Buster Brown lands on a crack.
Distant sounds of children playing, drones in the playground.
The crossing guard lies on the corner.
The unruly boys dare each other to cross, tear drops fall on her paralyzed cheeks.