I can’t tell you
it is an unpleasant thing
to live in the quirky neighborhood,
on the far side of the river,
a good ways from the thickest part
of the frantic throng.
Here, we are daily looking up,
fixating and stimming
on green minnow leaves
that shimmer against the waters of the sky.
Here we have our own customs;
the daily waking song,
the recitation of dreams,
the morning questions and videotaped answer
for her to play back over and over,
Yes, there will be snack. Yes, Mom is a girl.
Yes, there will be girl hair when we leave.
The life we’ve grown into,
first she and I and then he
who married into this confluence
of ordered disorder,
this life has authentic charm.
We go slow, we don’t try to measure up.
Our victories are sweeter
for how long they take to manifest
for how quickly they can disappear.
I can’t say it’s tragic in this virtual village,
this parallel universe
peopled with other singular folk
who understand the need for things
like space and processing time,
patience and velvet compassion,
smooth voices, soft dolls,
sweet routine and
more spice in everything.
We have magic here, I tell you.
Songs that play in color,
voices with texture,
folks who spin and swing and
hum and sing.
And the leaves! The glorious
between the clouds,
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