A Month of Sundays
Kathleen Hellen
In the exaggerated light of perigee
I pitter-patter to the bus stop in my flip-flops.
a lit-up field ... the diamond sparkling, the trees like silent sentries
I can count on when a truck comes up, its headlights ducking between
houses with their lights on,
lighting2 up the boys in gangs of three
who toss the football, a joke or two. I speak their language with a nod up,
the way it ought to be, never down, never chin tucked under.
We do it right tonight. No
forgeries3. No rock and dust in samples
auctioned off. The moon's a base ... or so it seemed ... when was it?
years ago ... a man walked on the chalked and
cratered4 surface of TV
and seized the
flicker5 of the future, like a baseball thrown and stuck
in some belief. A flag planted, light-yeared on what's noble.
Michael Jackson's Walk not jive hallucination.
I follow in the footprints, in orange imitation
of a streetlight. I give all my hopes to seas
or to a rabbit rice-cake-making.
I take the bus to somewhere on
the near side of the pie.
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