like second-hand wishes for the dead,
passed down a generation or maybe
two, because oh, those genetic disorders embedded
in your skin; what big teeth you have,
little red exclaims before wolf tosses
the disguise.

they are wishes of the more forlorn, less
tattered, and more miserly,
a chaotic mess of postmodernist opinions that
draw pedantic circles. just some second-hand wishes
for those who need it the least but
want it the most.

they wake up in their favorite fairytales.