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in my weeping willow down the street

the branches hung longer than Rapunzel's hair.

I wasn't aware that by the channel

Mitchell could be such a rebel,

and no amount of begging please

could save the life of those poor bees.

Buzzing bees, angry jackets

yellow flying at my waiting head.

Pain.

Mitchell usually meant pain

after the age of thirteen.

Too cool for me was he

then, a middle school man.

Bright, bustling age of eleven,

and I'm in search of a new best friend.

Moving on to half past thirteen

and Mitchell's there to hold me, sobbing.

I did a lot of sobbing.

Over broken bones,

or broken hearted,

I cried more tears

than Mitchell spotted.

But when he did,

and this was sure,

a helping hand

was always there.