Sunday, June 24, 2012

Fly~away, 1

Elevens, originally.
Nine now.
No, the two are still,
yet don't know
(nor care).


That forty-two years should pass.
That you took me in
three beyond.
That our fathers are buried
within stepping stones of each other
in the
middle of this town.


Few have this,
I know.
We rarely squabble.
Ha, true.
Yet so different.


Words for each:
Earnest.
   Pensive.
      Contemplative.
          Keen.
      Canny.
   Harmonious.
Curious.
    Classic.
But me, lighter/
frivolous/
yet grateful.


So, we leave soon.
To the northern town
to adventures
recalled
before we see.


We had that, you know,
in the land after Kennedy,
in the days of Jude,
before lost children and brothers
and broken hearts
and stranded lovers
and fathers
gone.


Nights up long,
checking of boys 
over pizza at the Red Lion,
dreams of school
and airplanes
and the
world to be saved.
Did we save anything?
She nodded in the way that just we know:
Only the enchantment of elevens.


Hey.







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