Alice's Park Poem by Nassy Fesharaki

Alice’s park

As child of museum, on her side
Lay bricks and blocks, on them names
And a bench, and an arch of metal is for shade
Vine tree hangs on sides with its leaves, book pages.

In this park, little girl lying down in reading.
The park is both sweet and bitter, deep inside.

“I will come, cut ribbon only if…”
Alice set conditions with caution:
“I can have body guards...”

This is how Wingham was; somehow is.

In distance writer is laureate; not at home.
(Unless for advantage)
This is us…all of us…
Most unknown and hardly recognized, are at home.
Like Ali, and Rumi, and those who, left States, for Paris
And owner of textile factory; the insults of his maid in office …

Who is wrong?
What is wrong?

“Why is so? ”
“Maid knows me undressed and simple, not the rest.”

Ernest said (Hemingway) , Alice did,
The core of a fiction must be true,
Then decors by author.

“Rose is me…”
“Flo…me…”
This is me; that is me…
And so on the people complained, hated her
So Alice was deeply unwanted.
She was a betrayer who slurred.
She always faced eyebrows, faces turned.
Some people hated her.
Now efforts is spent to forget…not for her
For the world, it is show, for her name, Laureate.