On daisy-fresh feet my father and I
used to go buy ice-cream downtown
in the red brick building, where tall men
walked on bamboo legs on Sundays,
and would shake hands with you if
you were lucky. It was where Santa lived
for all of December, back when Decembers
weren't cold and didn't have the blues.
It was really the building of dreams.
It was an amusement park of sorts,
but I was three and everything from back
then seems washed with
late sunlight, where do dead dreams go?
Father said let's go there again, the
building of dreams. I go with him.
We sit in his big car and I let him talk about
me when I was three, he doesn't know
that I am dying now. No one has told him
that you should never go back to places
you once loved.
They have built a hotel there now.
I am almost relieved. We don't say anything
on the way back.
YOU ARE READING
Doux
Poetrythe walls with blued body scents soft on the skin, the curtains drawn and a lover asleep close by. ...
