Last Thoughts on Myrtilla Miner Elementary

in northeast amber, smiles
shoveled around, naming worms "Angel"
regretfully returning it all to the soil
a spark that shook me back
lingered days longer than comfortable
left me living younger, nervous again
was I 16 when the majesty of possibility riveted days together
into one washed sweep of tremors?
Someday others will own this hopeless
stack of calendars, every giggle and uncertain walk home
crunching trash and leaves marked,
with annotations and Hawthorne references to prison yard roses.
A beautiful bird winters where the sun never shone
and summers where the concrete laughter pool is dry
I come, and leave then come again
but never pass a night on beds of rats and glass
the shrieks of bad dreams come my way
but not like those in the nest of sadness.
On sunday nights in broken chairs
a mother braids a sad belle's hair
who looks more us
than she does they
but dances on riverbanks among those who seem her own
planting oaks on pollution flows.
Age becomes apparent when one's youth is stirred again
the flickers of gloom vision penetrate
musty urine odored corridors
where glancing about I concentrate
on the possibility of conjuring magic thoughts
of innocent complexity
to life
and the young, but I graying soon at 26
felt once more like a man too young to vote or drive after dark
the radio song is sketchy mournful
and I can see how all that poetry was possible.