Tuesday, November 28, 2017
Poem of the Day: Twimberly
We were giddy with anticipation
the day that the new soda shop opened.
We waited outside until the sign hanging in the glass windowed doorway
Turned from CLOSED to OPEN
and we rushed in, all eight of us, raggedy and rapscallion and loud and yelling and
pushing each other and it was grand, and everything was a smile,
and the memory of that day still tastes like root beer and licorice and
cotton candy and I can still feel the cool of the shaved ice that Maurice
smeared across my cheek, and we are all still eight years old,
even as the sun now sets on each of us,
in different towns, in different houses,
scattered across the country, separated by the turns of centuries.
Yet, even as the last whip of evening orange strips fade,
the voices of ourselves still echo in my ears,
and they always sing me to sleep.