I am walking down a road in my mind.
It has to be in my mind because this road,
that road doesn’t exist any more. I
know no one who lives there now, the
houses have all changed. They no longer
have street numbers. They are just houses
houses where once people lived and loved.
but no more. They are just houses:
there is a white house, and a blue house
with a yellow door, a yellow brick house,
with brown trim and one that is grey.
This park I know, or used to. It is not
Quite right. The trees, the swings the
benches seem to come from different parks.
maybe ther was only one park. Perhaps
we rode along deceptive routes in the old
Rocket 88, same park, the route taken
Determined the name given to the one park.
Well the parks were all the same green lawns
covered with mature trees the air smelling
of gentile decay. Sleepy meandering stream
Full pf water lilies. Yes this park I now
Another street; a road, if you please,
August gravel road. Waking to town
in the heat. Rite of passage walking
first along the shore of the great lake
then along the lake road. Pale limestone
dust, pale dust on blue jeans and
black red ball sneakers. Pale dust
on pale urban child. These roads are
gone now, lost either to the lake or
to the gentry demanding macadam.
Step, step along trough the pale dust.
The park gain, the park, but no people
just like there was no one on the
roads, or at the shore, or in the houses.
Try as I might, and I do try, I can not
call anyone to mind the best that I van do
is pale shades of men and women, boys and
girls, outlines and pale washes of colour.
blank eyes and faces. indistinguishable
each to each. There is a sound, swings
screeching children laughing. I turn to
see two empty swings swinging …
Heading out of the Park on the Old East Road
pursuing and being pursued. Hunting for a road
that I know. Seeking the people and places that
made me. Running, running away from the same.
no farther from the one, no close to the other.
Lying in my cot behind the screen. while the adults
insecure in their adulthood, play cutthroat canasta.
Under my Indian blanket I am secure protected
by my imagination. The adults are hard to talk to
they don’t have imagination, just canasta.
The wooden screen door slams shut brhind me
As I leave the Cottage, back to the road again the
road so achingly familiar so utterly, utterly strange.
Searching for a road I know. Does one exist?
Can one exist? If one doe not exist do I? No.
That is too dire a conclusion. I exist because I
can imagine and remember. when memory fades\
When imagination fails still I shall exist in the
womb of existence itself, going down a road in my mind.
a memory in the greater mind.