for T
Clack-clack-clack-clack-clack-clack-clack…
a stick along a picket fence;
sound soothes as does the vibe of my hand,
bumpty-bumpty-bumpty-bump…
skates roar on an autumn sidewalk
up my street lined with familiarity.
•
“I’ve always had a secret
that I could not share
about my conversations
with the tortoise and the hare.”
•
Cheeks redder than red as my hair,
eyes wind whipped to weeping,
a swipe of a pink sweatered arm
does my nose just fine.
Metallic clatter off the curb….jump!
Jump! and back up again. Rooar! Rooar!
•
“Tell me Mister Hardshell,
how do you sit so still;
haven’t you made promises
you’re obliged to fulfill
and……is it dark inside your shell?”
•
“Listen, little darling,
honey can’t you see,
we’re only made to gaze and wait;
our only purpose is to be
and….darkness softens time considerably.”
•
Comes the call but the roars too loud,
“Come in, its getting cold!”
The cold wind swallows the familiar plea
and there’s clacking on a picket fence.
•
“Tell me Mister Speedster,
why do you run all day,
why do you dither and dash
in such an erratic way
and…where are you going?”
•
“Listen to me sweetie,
life is just a thrill!
We rush and rave and cast
about….and over the hill is the carrot patch.”
•
The street is still familiar….
shorter, of course, narrower, too;
roots have heaved the sidewalks
to skateboard ramps, little matter,
kids play in the street now with no
respect, daring you to hit them.
•
And still, often, I lie in the dark
listening to Mister Hardshell breathe,
drawing first my legs, then arms and
lastly my head into my shell and then
synchronizing our breaths….slower…
slower…to slower…to stop…if I could.
•
And there are times I chase Mister
Speedster till my lungs ache with
a greed for things unknown and
anger gushes hot from every pore
splattering those near me and
they turn and look at me and I
never hear their abashed silence.
•
Where are the picket fences now
and a good stick with which to ply
a synchronous rhythm, a survival beat?
