De Ja Blues


De Ja Blues.




Maybe I'm still there,
stretched out
in a straw hat,
chewing on that
stalk of grass
under a monkey-ball tree.
(Sycamore) of course.

In the summer
of my ninth year,
digging the shade.

Maybe that wish I made
to be an adult
when all the world
was a fresh baked
cookie barely nibbled
came true.

Maybe it's only
been a few seconds
since I mumbled
my desires to be free
of the awkwardness
of childhood,
the ignorance
of innocence,
and that ache
for the girl next door.

Something much like
when we sleep,
how time flies by
yet we are,
unaware of it's passing.

Maybe all these
years I carry,
are but a
blink away
from that backyard
tree and me,
studying the
sun-dappled weaves
of straw inside the hat
that covers my face,
as apple pie
scented breezes
call me to momma's kitchen
for a warm wedge
of time long forgotten.

But then again,
Maybe not,
as a whimsical smile
wrinkles, then creases
this much too wise
of a face,
to ever play
make believe again.

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