Last night I dreamed of dead fish, heads of decapitated ducks, flailing dolphins.
They were strewn all over Washington Road,
the main street in my childhood town.
No one else was on the road but me.
I wonder if my life will be a ghost town,
rotting remnants of careless decisions,
sinking ships and lost treasures.
Even the street names make me sad today:
Meadowbrook, Essex, Scarborough.
As if we live in a pleasant English village.
We do not. The window to the right is smudged.
The table is wobbling. The floor slants.
The sidewalks are hard, the road is hard.
My feet need to walk mile upon mile
over slow rising hills.
And yet, there is always an "and yet,"
the woman who just came through
the door smiled at me,
the man who clears the tables
just smiled at me,
a kid outside -- more pants and t-shirt than body-
just stopped listening to his friends
and met my gaze through the window.
As if we were the keepers of a small
old flame and, only through us,
the spark of compassion stays kindled.
No comments:
Post a Comment