The Imperishable Fields

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We arrive at this certain age

like any moon-eyed immigrant


light years away 


from our homeland of 


fathomless promises


with nothing more 


than a carpetbag full of


hastily packed  


dream particles 


more afraid of the  dark 


than when we were Dr. Denton little 


and cried out 


like the Bible’s lost lamb


for someone to rescue us 


from the perils of the night.


It is here where


in between 


glimpses of


a swirling whirligig 


a romp of sea shore footprints 


and a naked bed girl 


curled like Marilyn


aboard a thrill of satin sheets


We take inventory of our disappointments


We itemize forever best friends


who opted out of their contracts early


Mourn the vanished opportunities 


Miss the children who moved to Mars


and crave the lovers 


whose vows were lost at sea


What cossets us


in this 


ghost-filled 


way station orphanage of ours


is our one true ally:


the single beam of a nightlight


which represents 


the only thing that can save us:


the 


invisible 


gravitational 


pull 


of our mom and dad


who wait


like tender shepherds 

in the imperishable fields


far beyond 


the gloaming of nothingness 


to guide us home.

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