Poetry Form: Prosaic
1969
I asked my mother one day
as she stood and looked out into the
golden wheat fields
when we could go into the city
"And why would a nine-year-old wanna go to the city for?"
she asked with her sad hazel eyes
Just so we can catch
the outline of the skyscrapers
as they turn grey in the dusk night:
we'll stop at the side of the road
not making a sound
as the city's lights draw a halo
around its shadowed edges
1999
My son asked me the other day
as we practiced baseball in the backyard
when we were going to visit the country
"What's a nine-year-old going to do in the country?"
I looked at him with my professor hazel eyes
I just want to set up a campfire
pitch a tent,
sleep under the stars
hear the night noises:
watch the moon lay
a blanket of light over
the fish in the fresh
river water
March 28, 2004
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