Little girl, playing with little toy cars
Somewhere in the world,
Somewhere in the windows of yesterday,
In a house, on the floor, on a carpet;
Could be anywhere,
Couldn't happen anywhere but here.

Her stubby fingers run
Along the metal edges.
She doesn't know that normal little girls
Don't play cars; they play dolls.
And she doesn't care. Yet.

Carefully she puts them on the ramp,
Laughs in delight as they zoom down
To crash into the carpet that itches at her knees.
It always itches at her knees,
Always has, always will
But she ignores it.

These will be her only cars
For a very long time.
Normal little girls don't want
Shiny new toy cars.
When her parents buy more,
They'll be for a little brother
Unborn, as yet, but he'll come
To play cars on itchy carpets.

She picks up a faded green one,
Ugly, worn out color,
But on the hood an eagle spreads it's wings.
It ought to fly so fast, to soar
Over the carpet, out the door
Of this anywhere house.
But the wheels don't turn,
No matter how hard she tries.
It just stops.

Distressed, she tries so hard to fix it
With her clumsy hands, but she can not.
Later, she will never remember when it moved.
The car is frozen, there on the carpet.
It will always be broken to her,
Tangled in memory with charts, tests and evaluations
From strange, sympathetic women
Who know no more about a matchbox car
Than whether or not the wheels turn.

But now, there is only the somewhere carpet,
Where the girl sits alone with her cars;
She examines her green eagle with studious care,
And failing to fly it, she gives it a parade
In a cluster of the other cars
Because it must have broken in some grand race-
Such a lovely eagle had to know the wind,
She could find a hero's heart in it back then.

There is only one girl, one car, one carpet
Somewhere, yesterday, as far away
As the sky to a broken eagle.
And yet, she could be anyone. 
She could be you.
She could be me, too,
For all I'm sure.
Just another one of many birds
That never seemed to fly.