The Symphonic Jangle Of Our Childhood Keys

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Just like today,
tomorrow
already feels like
Zelda Fitzgerald
passed out in a backless Rib Stitch 5 bathing suit
from an overdose of Absinthe
splayed like defeat
beneath a striped umbrella
that looks like a just sprouted
Daisy
planted like a moon flag
in the lunar beach surface of
the Riviera.

But in normal times

Which is so not now
I board
with total abandon
any number of
waiting steampunk rocket ships
The kind that Jules Verne once imagined
Which sit on launchpads
At the Ministry of Peculiar Occurrences
That are perpetually aimed at
the vastness of stars
Which
between you and I,
are secret way stations
Where everyone
Who we still desperately want to hold
Wait for us
Like our moms and dads
Who once upon a time
stared at a night winter window
In the grief-stricken hours past midnight
Until they heard
The symphonic jangle of our childhood keys
Which gave them permission to
Finally, breathe a sigh of relief
Because they loved us that much.

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