We remember, sometimes fondly, how nothing sleeps
like we sleep. Then, sweaty from a midday’s heat’s nap
I go walking outside and the mailman’s hair
takes on a life of its own.
Wishing to be a boy with a stick to beat against a tree
(it is so predictable of us) and to believe it
That I hold the stick in my willful palm
And with it, like time, like laughter falling
Obliterating the mailman’s identity momentarily.
From there to wake and think How come? How came I here?
A little fish, a miscreant, I adore you and cannot know why
Yet I feel to believe that all is contingent on this
There is tradition in song, someone said.