Friday, March 12, 2010

The Editor

We went back through high school,
through hoops on the playground,
past dreams on the slide.
And there in the first steps,
in plastic-sheen purpose,
were toys that none would forget.
Then back out through pages,
flipped by fingers, frantic
to see what the end had in store.
Although here at the ending,
our prose still precedes what
truly defines our existence.
Exist though we will,
climb down the ladder,
throw the toy airplane to the sky.
The Park. What a nice day --
the air charged with sun,
between trees and benches, don't sway.
Made of gray matter,
fully-suited in leather,
the Editor sits, calm and in vain.
The dirt falls much faster,
when earths' eroded beneath it,
sinkhole swimming, your fall means _____.

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