This Won't Make Sense

You bring us back to beaches, bonfires, flames that flutter like the wings of butterflies.
You tease a gap-toothed child. A baseball game
begins,
the math of farm team hits and tries,
of boys in shirts and shorts and gel-spiked hair.
They'll take the Number 7 subway train
to watch some football, giants battling bears
or other beasts. One plays a video game.

The boss, in a hoop skirt and bobby socks,
surveys the paintings of dancehalls and gifts.
The music rests. The actors eat cupcakes.
The therapist observes. Her reading glasses shift.
A Labrador can hear the silent cue.
It barks. It runs in rings and waits for you.

The sunlight fades your dress and curls,
but you're not home until you hug your pup.
Drawing pink and purple lambs,
As tiny voices sing an old jazz tune
caretakers pass along their business cards.
A spaniel jumps a soccer ball and, soon,
an artist grabs her pencils and regards
the scene: the dog's ballet, the jazz, the sheep;
all fit here like a horse and cowboy boots.
Beyond the pool we watch an arrow's steep
decline,
to land so deep within our roots.

Such was the fall, before the winter took
the green and gilded leaves of Sandy Hook.




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since June 28th, 2009.