Читать книгу an inkstorm summoned under live oak we dreamed - daniel boonelight - Страница 7

i grew up junebug hopping

and firefly chasing and making

art from the leaves; we'd wander

blocks away to play and it barely

even mattered indeed

it was outside scratchings

and trampoline leaps and it was

always, 'shut the door!'

because we had inside cats:

meticulously maintained and contained.

in a nowadays frame i walk

back with my grocerybags through

the sunshine splendorcurtain

and notice the wild felines dart

this way and that in reconnaissance

missions and roaming brio

and i pass through the doors

into the air-conditioned gridcube.

sitting before me are inside kids:

chauffeured into safe cool cars

from one building to another

throughout their day, receiving

their daily rations and digital awareness,

meticulously maintained and contained.

my exhale, sometimes,

is a prayer to the sun.

the kind that bears

a thanksgiving

to my place in history.