Where are you, boys and girls
of Miss Lindahl's 5th grade class?
What became of you
In the Shadow Box,
one thing becomes another.
Nothing is fixed,
Supervising the small children,
I glance at my watch to see
How long until my break.
My eyes see boys
In dreams I keep trying to find my way
back to the house of my childhood
and sometimes I end up getting lost.
The paper boy brought Sunday’s Post on Saturday night
as our family watched “The Hit Parade” inside.
We’d hear his cart rattling by on the icy pavement,
then his song, in his nasal voice: “Baaay-berrr! ”
A room full of people talking like runaway
trains that won’t ever stop.
No sun or moon rises or sets for the room—
no day or night, no seasons.
who look like good people,
like people I pass every day,
I'd live my life in shorthand,
the short hand of a poem,
a zen brush painting.