[Draft #1 of another short nostalgia-prompted poem]
There should be that moment of hesitation—
wherein the moving cars are caged behind the lines,
itching to lash out in front. And yet,
that perfect moment nearly always comes
even if you have to hold out your hand to an invisible
mother, father, worker, master,
and slip by the metallic objects in space…
through the urban layout
past the uneven stone graveyard wall
…and onto the beach road.
Sand spills out onto the asphalt,
and small waves crash in just over the wall of sand
and short wooden bridge.
There’s a dim purple in sky that hides just beyond the eye’s reach.
It’s concealing childish memories
along with the primordial infant self
that just wants to melt languidly
and lie down in the grass in the vestige of sunlight
and try to find the comforting past, hiding,
beneath the piles of leaves
rustling on the passing lawns.