Green green pinata
we hit you with sticks
until you split
your sleepy seams.
You tell me Seattle...
I think wet eyed gingerbread houses,
waving pines, and peek-a-boo mountains.
I watched your pincushion children
nurse boredom and deflate
like birthday balloons as they sunk
to your mossy floor.
They grew work hair
and slept in sequined
Rolling Stone magazine says we will miss you.