Wednesday, April 10, 2019



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

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