(Imagine a child laughing and listening)
I once had a friend named Mr. Roosevelt
who felt the sky crumble beneath his feet. A pleasant
man. I have lived he would say three thousand lives and a three thousand
lives I have once lived. But he would say each of them lasted
but just one day. I once met a man named Atlas he said,
on day one hundred and thirty nine. And the days marched with uncertainty
until there were no days left. I once met a fisherman’s tale
upon a screen in a very large room filled with loneliness and laughter.
I once felt the echoes of a mishearted kindness, the kind
where pause is taken until silence fills the room.
I once was a child where a smile was a smile,
laughter was felt and kindness was always. One
hundred and thirty days later I wonder how much is enough.
As a child I was never home within the boring hallways.
Give a Magician his due. And his secret to withstand
the sacred air of polished brass. Or am I. Or do I answer…
Does the soft light of… does the air of… where have I found myself…
Can I repeat the fragrant smell of? Does the glass window cry in its stillness?
Does it see anything? Does it shake in its kindness? The flowers below beside
the street corner I reach out to touch.
September 