poem 324 of a poem a day for 2012

dreaming a hollowed wean

time here

I say to my daughter

is a witness that has been put to sleep

in the coal ash burning under the iron stoves

and chimney-ed laughter of children

buried inside every adult here

somewhere between obligation and the little rituals

that are brought back to life once a year

to be born into the world again

with masks and make-up and limbs

that are articulated like dolls

no one spoke too loudly here

and everyone had blackened palms and fingerprints

and everything was an odd and out of place

puzzle waiting for another piece

this here quaint town I say to my daughter

is not quite in sync with time

not quite passing through all the elements of human desire

it is nearing Halloween and my daughter and I

are driving through New England’s little slices

of macabre old America

you know the kind

the Washington Irving and Nathaniel Hawthorne

rusted iron and cracked clapboard timber diorama towns

filled with secrets and this town

seemed as good as any to repair my car

that had just broken down

there is a red painted community theater

down the street from the repair shop

it has a small stage with velvet curtains

the stage has become a play area for children

scattered with various toys that seem

as if they had just been played with

as we can hear most of the children

sound as if they are outside playing

near this pumpkin patch out back

we can hear whistle screams

and spooky tag names being called

the theater is at the bottom

of a long green grassed hill

with a church and crooked stone cemetery

at its top and I putter around for a few minutes

on the stage’s rickety wooden floor

and watch my daughter play marbles

with some fixed eyed china dolls

and a new found imaginary friend

she tells me this story of this

picture perfect anime rounded eye blond girl

she tells me she doesn’t say much

when adults are around beyond smiling

so as I am there I just look at her playing

when I notice the back door behind the stage is open

and I can see all the little peel-painted white-houses

under the slate gray sky that this town

seems to have been born under

isn’t it all too quiet here I say to my daughter

that there is nothing but eyes here that seem to know

everything we might be looking for

yes, she says, almost as soon as we broke down

we began a road trip from east central New York

a Dad and daughter trip to take pictures of old houses

and communal pumpkin patches

and little churches

we drove over the old roads away from

and off the highway in middle Massachusetts

when the two lane state road led us

into the middle of this town

this town seemed to come up

and slow our thoughts down

seemed to slow itself down

seemed to capture us

seemed to break holes

clear through my radiator

that weren’t there the last time

I filled the gas tank in southern New Hampshire

there was a stilling silence

as my daughter and I walked beside the patch

and up the hill to the old church and cemetery

and as we did a horde of costumed darth vaders

and stone staring American girl dolls

came running over the hill and past us

and back toward the theater

should we follow them Dad

she asked and I said no

let’s watch from here

and sure enough they began disappearing

one by one by the time they reached

the stage’s backdoor

as if life itself in this town was all hollow

and weaning back to some unseen womb

back to where life is in the circle of four seasons

coming to a standstill plump as a pumpkin

and full of seeds waiting

for the carve of strangers

to bleed some of their life

back into its very old bones

EJR ©