The Last Day of Childhood
Friends would marvel
at two rope swings hung from the rafters
One thousand feet of newsprint slung on a spool
with a bucket of American Crayons (not Crayola)
Supplies to build great structures of the world
Legos, Tinker Toys, and Lincoln Logs
carried by caravans of Tonka Trucks
Superior to the Great Library of Alexandria:
picture books on geography, WWII, treasures of the art world
American history and Charles Addams cartoons
Archives of Donald Duck, Batman and Archie comics
--selected by my sister
--bought by my mother
--read my me
--and hauled away by my father
Off in the forbidden realms:
my grandfather's workbench
and its cast iron vice
that clenched and healed
dolls, bikes and chairs
In the opposing corner
whiteness and humming
of an ever industrious
washer and drier
Gurgling and rumbling
in dark rivers below
lies the crocodile of a sump pump
Tucked in a recess
like a scarab beetle
a dusty old bowling trophy
A royal chamber
enshrines artifacts as sacred as
treasures from Tutankhamun’s tomb
And now
as distant as the buried bones of a lost caravan
When we left the house
my father inscribed his own hieroglyphs
on the center basement beam
abandoned to later civilizations.
032514
__________________________________________________
THAT COCKTAIL PARTY
That cocktail party you
never attended
for whatever reason
--you were too tired
--you had to work late
--you didn't like the host
--the last one was a zonk
Was where you were going to meet
the business connection
that would lead to the perfect job
the lifelong friend who would one day
help you out of a jam
the woman who would be
the romantic love of a lifetime.
You would have been the perfect guest
throwing off witty bon mots and
making clever repartee
Instead
you made your way home
to open a six dollar bottle of red wine and
flop on the couch to watch
a rerun of The Office
you'd seen twice before
But tomorrow
you may have another chance.
More poems at Verse-Virtual http://www.verse-virtual.com
Great poem on the ironies of life and fate--what could be called the potential reality.
ReplyDeleteAs for the first poem, I always enjoy the sense of exploration and adventure into the past in your poems--you are a Poet Archeologist.
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