Dreams of Plato
She was as sweet as an orange blossom
leaping over newly born daisies.
Her feet wrapped in patent leather shoes
and a face as perfect as a moon, in autumn;
a product of two fine gems at Plato’s, but
you won’t recall Plato’s or a blast as hot as
the sun changed the color of the blossom.
Ignorance on the part of a lazy man, one
she married – never loved; now a poor
widow imperfect burns.
But a small delicate flower is leaping.
She pumps a swing with her strong legs
and runs faster than the boys from her
block. Her eyes her grandmother’s,
knowing everything as she rocked
back and forth.
That’s before the fire, robbed her sight
alone, she sits on a faded pillow.
Alone, she sits on her porch – sinking
deeper – deeper – into earth.
She heard laughter from the playground
I watched as a tear rolled on her hollow
cheeks as if a diamond sparkled
she once again – sees . . .
Her leg’s run, carrying her body to
the playground, where Plato’s once
stood, and leaps onto a slide
and her thighs burn
