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.







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