The Symphonic Jangle of Childhood Keys

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Today

and most likely tomorrow

feels like Zelda Fitzgerald

passed out in a backless 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.

In these times of sorrow

when the earth 

and my country 

no longer feel welcoming

or safe

I board

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 aimed at

the infinity of quivering stars

which

between you and I,

are secret way stations

where everyone

who we want desperately to hold; 

wait for us to come home

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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