| All I ever wanted was that living room, Sunday evening, chicken In the roaster, that deep orange sofa, that maple table Spread out like a wagon wheel upon which cups of tea floated And macramé or puzzles could be assembled. Don’t tell me Disney isn’t reality: whole cities have ticked by in nylon print T-shirts, under lithographs of the Blue Boy in plastic K-Mart frames. Poets, don’t let your poems grow up to be idealists. I want in. I agree we need to rethink everything from landfills to the accumulation Of fat around the heart, but there really is nothing like a castle Under a neon moon ringed with LED flowers. Also, dogs do Find their way home, and while beds can’t fly you can wake From a good trip around the Internet and be hungry for a Pop-Tart. Don’t say you can’t, or won’t, or that my dream is flimsy: there is nothing Less thrilling than a critique of others, how they do or do not, twirl. Copyright © 2014 by Sina Queyras. Used with permission of the author. |
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