Those were good times– when the lights didn't buzz
overhead like horseflies tracing sightlines
across the space of a room that once was
tangibly unblemished–as the light shines:
Those were fun faces–that looked so sweaty
due to exuberance and diligence
in the fields of marigold–eyes beady,
knees needy from bending before the fence:
To beat palms against the wind is not to
keep time. Never must the master catch us
with our minds drawn black. Please, sir, do not do
this to them. They are the future. Latch us
to the moment; let it creak and scrape off
my nape, before you prove their unripe love.
urbansonnets 