When I was 8 years old, I had too much.
I owned so many dolls I couldn’t pick
a favorite. Most the books I loved had such
poor heroines, their toys were either stick-
and-yarn creations or composed of rags –
they didn’t have to nominate a best.
Receiving dolls with thanks, removing tags,
inside I felt both fortunate and stressed.
A first-world problem? Yes: perverse to stew
about abundance. I should be ashamed.
The malady continues. I’ve a slew
of sonnets daily dashed and barely named
before supplanted. I can’t love one right
or recollect a stanza to recite.