They had so many straight, right, and complimentary intentions. Now they're just a pile of protractors scattered about the floor.

Fallen angles.

Mr. Bingo's Magic Playground.

For my life,
I do not know why
You love that brassy clown
More than certain relatives
Who have showered you with
Kindness
And affection
Or how he, in his palette of sugary chroma,
Speaks the same language
As the ancient voice of wonder
Booming in your ears.

But I watched him on repeat
at your insistence
And I saw your earnest weightlessness
Mirrored in Mister Bingo when he
And his friends
Sang about how you can still be silly
If you eat broccoli.

And that cacophonic theme music
Lands on your ears when
a true God of your choosing
Is alive in the world,
And your wordless, unlearned joy
Sanctifies all it touches.
You laugh the same
unbridled laugh that some boy laughed
Beneath chalky skies
Three thousand years ago
When the psalms of open sky had not yet had the magic translated out of them.

When Mister Bingo needs to rest because
dad must check an email
On his phone
That you insist is your phone,
You drift alone on
The ocean of little sorrows
And wail like Hecuba
For all that you have lost,
And all that you will surely lose,
Until your hero returns
To tell you that
He loves you,
That you are special,
And that you can buffalo
Your parents into buying a certain breakfast cereal.