collecting experiences,
like a woods-boy’s special rocks.
carefully laying out the tchochkes,
all across the shelves, to kidnap precious dust

waiting still to show ma and pop
whether they will care or not.

So, I go on:

man
tossing back and forth the particles of dust
charting all the stars splayed as neatly as the Milky Way spilled across deido's oaken chest
or maybe it was bubba's
who I never met
no use in crying over though the guilt stain soaks deep into a young pine's fresh and loosened grain
That old chest was hard, but he is tough as nails and rocks
at least that far i can read the stars
the steelworker died when I turned nine
or eleven, maybe

baby
I linger at the carousel
Apollo's organ badgering the Pegasus to toss the children up and down
Hera, the immortal frown throwing dishes at the family quilt hangin on the wall while Jupiter the gassy
giant slumps and belches from behind his crown

the proscenium, red velour and the golden tassel mobile draped about the arch
this shelf where I hid my rocks, stars

waiting still to show ma and pop
whether they will care or not.

So I go on: