Ruby red sweater
magically knit garment
transformed by moths
Glossy illustrations float
colorful characters and exotic places
before a little boys sparkling blue eyes.
His smile stretches to surround his mom and dad
with youthful delight as he carefully
turns the pages of his new book.
She blows a cloud of dust
off the leather jacket of a book she pulls
from a small wooden table. Vibrant
ink drawings take her breath away.
“Is this for sale?” she asks
the garage sale proprietor.
A stiff black inspector’s boot
stumbles on a buried article in cooling ashes.
His gloved hand retrieves a charred book.
The embossed cover and bright images still visible
bring a grim smile to the fireman’s face.
With a sad heart he tosses the book in the garbage.
Jacket is slowly retrieved,
carefully put on.
Scheduled appointment time
has long since come and gone.
Waiting for an indication,
some reason for this to-do
rather than being left alone
by myself to sit and stew.
Simple words remain
Billowing images rise
to delirious heights;
trailing hurt and anger
ready to ignite.
No explanation given
for the unexpected delay.
Patience wears thin
with the lengthening day.
magazine pages are read.
Still no one comes out,
nothing is said.
Jacket is buttoned,
Do not reschedule.
Never mind a tip!
David Kanigan posted this a number of days ago. It really resonated with me and I cannot stop thinking about it so I thought I would share it so others could be left mulling over these awesome thoughts, too 🙂
The second half of my life will be black
to the white rind of the old and fading moon.
The second half of my life will be water
over the cracked floor of these desert years.
I will land on my feet this time,
knowing at least two languages and who
my friends are. I will dress for the
occasion, and my hair shall be
whatever color I please.
Everyone will go on celebrating the old
birthday, counting the years as usual,
but I will count myself new from this
inception, this imprint of my own desire.
The second half of my life will be swift,
past leaning fenceposts, a gravel shoulder,
asphalt tickets, the beckon of open road.
The second half of my life will be wide-eyed,
fingers shifting through fine sands,
arms loose at my sides, wandering feet.
There will be new dreams every night,
and the drapes…
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Afternoon head bobs
bent over tedious tasks
Little miss amidst
colorful discarded clothes
unimpressed Barbie stares