Fanning the fading flames of youth with his father’s toupee,

Exposing the secrets and gentle truths of harsh realities;

Counterclockwise is only a concept his grandpa made up

During one wishful, fitful night of reverie.

While winds blow up the alleys and streets and skirts

Of better days carrying yesterday’s newspaper on whispered steps,

The street lights appear as from nowhere.

Brilliant angels and their misty halos come too soon,

Surely they’ve come too soon.

Is it time to go home?

Arms tightly crossed over his chest he rests

Weathered hands, one on each shoulder.

In this lonely embrace he gently sways

To the rhythms of a mother’s memory,

And is drawn back to the dimpled soul of childhood