Alley guard
morning glories vining
up the cinderblock wall
we kept our car
in one of those
profile of Chief Pontiac
facing into the dark.

2.
Enough of memory,
be instead
the child again
you thought you were
instead of now
when you sit and think
what would I do if I were me?

3.
Child be,
grammarless and lost,
one summer morning in the mountains
it was 32 degrees,
the poor rattlesnake
coiled on the big boulder
in sun to keep warm.
That is how we learned
numbers and cross the road
and run away.

4.
The futility of childhood
is proved by what happens next.
Look at your so-called friends–
can you imagine any one of them
as a child? Childish maybe
but an actual kid? Never.
The child you were
is your lost Messiah–
pray for the Second Coming.

5.
Parousia
they call it
where they jive
about such things,

when the real comes back
from all the places you have been.
Don’t blame me
for my messy theology–
I was a child once
and it sticks to my hands.

6.
All this from the empty alley
where Mr. Hoffman walked his collie
and I learned the names
of a few flowers
that lasted ever after,
pussy-willow pansy rose.
An alley was a secret street
the houses hid,
cars came to their garages
left the pavement free.
Tricycles and tin wagons.
Once I saw my Brooklyn alley
in Chicago and suddenly
a heartbeat told me
an alley is the noblest street
because it always leads right here.

7.
To be honest,
memory is a big thick sweater
it’s hard to tug off
so you can feel on your bare skin
the chill of now.
Sunday. Cold. No child in sight.

7 March 2021