day EIGHT HUNDRED and ELEVEN

Neighborhoods

I guess you'd call me a fool spending an afternoon

at home and without a solitary beer, the white

cat tailless and yowling at every leaf blowing

across the yard, and the cicadas have punched

the clock early and, patiently as tinsmiths, work

the heavy air into song. The neighbor woman

finally went insane and shut herself in the vacant

chicken coop collapsing into the hillside.

That helicopter still patrols the neighborhood hoping

to, but not finding any of our lost children.

So little has changed. Perhaps on an errand I stop

in some public room and greet you like a friend.

More often I stare at my hands in shame. Would it

surprise you to learn I dreamt of you again last

night? In my dreams your hair is auburn and long

like it never was. In my dream this city grows new

neighborhoods like hearts dripping from some fairy

tale tree. I move through them a stranger watching

for familiar eyes. I expect great things, but the disappointment

hardly matters. This is what I will tell my son,

should he ever be found.

--Kristofer Collins