I will sleep now, to the fullest, a night where
darkness is not so black as it was painted
to be back . . .
after playing through the climb
on the metal tasting jungle-gym,
the square-barred joy
of my young life, how they said
come play with us . . .
until your parents call you home
for supper and then bed.
That life then, I imagine,
could not be more simple . . .
Well, it could’ve been.
Memory, she’s a well-meaning deceiver.
In my dream tonight, she will weave away
her soft designs for my fairy tale,
where there’s no return to that empty street
where I always arrive, attracted every time
like some damn magnet pulls my heart
to stand watch, waiting for a parade to pass,
that childhood joy, Ala Moana or Waikiki . . .
So I wake up, and she’s gone,
leaving just the gloomy dream memory
where there is no happy, happy lie,
because I still know
the parade has always already gone by . . .
She can’t seem to cheat me of that ending
Awake, and hunched on the edge of my bed,
I find no old confetti
at my feet, so you know I will
try her to dream
a steeling-purposed dream again —
if she
would just
try harder,
to find some kind
of way to undo
those criss-crossed threads
and help me turn me back
on to the end.
* * * * *
Today’s word is
parade
Use it in a piece, or use it to inspire a piece, and then post that piece as a comment below. I would love to read what you write : )
