Treasure recycled
Dig into the recent past with me and find
a cache of inventor’s dreams. We readjust
the creative waves and sift through the boxes
of wealth hidden in plain view at the back of
the parking lot, back of the elementary school,
boxes someone dared to label recycle—
waste of space. We fit into those spaces
like best friends do, more snug than our shoulders
around each other like the Golden bridge spanning
oceans and our dancing ideas—add
the final touches to the gumball machine,
tighten the gears and flip
through the blueprints to our trio. Forget your crisp
fears of fire drills, muse on the treasures
we looted like ancient libraries, ours
for the taking on the tail end
You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.
of summers like this.
Sixth-grade style
Your distaste dictates the weather, flaming gray
clouds like the coattails of some other kind
of storm. Turn other heads—mine is throwing
down the foundations of outer space, racing
the strings of comets with fleets of rockets and ships.
But you remember that one time? I was loitering
on the grounds, surrounded by the shadows of gym
plastic, gray and stern like stop signs when it
happened. I was wearing that new hat,
the nice one
fresh from the trucks and trains, new tags hanging
off it like streamers in a parade when it happened.
And that’s when you noted casually the flight
of strange birds, black and white like chess pieces,
rocketing down like man eager to conquer the moon,
sights set on the hat, the nice one, the new one.
And like a stage man at the close, I swept
the hat off my head, holding it above
me like the sun as I bowed toward the grass. And although
you’d never put words to the soccer ball incident,
I saw the way your eyes lit up, eyebrows raised
like train crossings. Style that shocked us both
like light-struck night bugs.