For A and B


then I stand behind it all
stepping from the ficus tree, I am clad in silver
midieval delicate

one of you help me down the tree
so friendly, big brotherly,
the both of you talk to me about life,
what it’s like being
just barely grown
and you caution me
not to fall,
as we conquor the tree limbs.

I like it
and wish i could encounter
people like them more often
sitting in trees.
I could center my life in a big tree.
there I could wait out my childhood
put off adulthood
and hibernate without remorse or chance
of either begining or ending.

I’d find company with
the theater company,
the singer and thespian guilds,
bright red and gold tapestry curtains
theaters carved out of
waxy resin oaks and
sequoias, creaking with age
and the footsteps from
decades of blocking
done by decades of feet.

retarded growth,
slothful patterns of sleep
and a good dose of the company love:
better than rye bread
I’d rather die that pass up being the lead.

Copyright 2015 Golden Star Poetry 

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