Dali

My oldest dream slips
from beneath me.

The heaven I chased
since childhood like
a pup would endlessly
chase its own tail
now trails far behind.

Homesick for maple,
for pucks and sticks
tossed behind by boys
from the neighborhood
on a water breaks
left outside at the
cul-de-sac.

We played ball, too,
when we were young
like children often do.

I still hear the bounce,
the swoosh, and the
soggy shoes because
even when it poured
we played and played
like children often do.

Hope is a terrible thing
that pierces through my soul;
almost like that cold gush of water
right after a run under the sun,
with stomach emptied from
everything but joy. Pure,
young joy naive enough to
believe it may be for good.

There sits a bitter taste in
my throat, my tongue that
knows not to mention how
I often toss and turn thinking
how deflated it is here;

How squirrels don’t mount trees;
How trees don’t look as green;
How everybody and everything
isn’t quite as happy. I have not
known dearth like that I have
come to know it here.

I had been hungry for almost
a decade. For years I have not
dined properly, only on crumbs and
left-overs of childhood memories.

For years I have been far from home,
and now, before I take humble steps
towards it again, I am afraid. I am afraid
the rug might be pulled out from under me.

Wouldn’t that be a wretched thing? To foolishly
believe I could have it all happen again
only for it to really happen in dreams.