By: William R. Soldan
This tattered perch tames
what was once a restless spring,
while plumbed are the depths
A child’s shaggy hair,
tangled back in the freeway breeze
as he tangles toward the unfamiliar:
tilted houses on dead end streets
and blurring rest-stop vacancies.
in this autumn,
as days gone still
still echo on the wall,
such remnants of the here and gone
search for purchase in the space between
a latchkey kid
and part-time reverie.