The
first thing was an orange crate.
Cake
tin lids for wheels and a room
filled
with things to bump into or
around.
A forest of chair legs
cushions
wooden cubes and woven
circles
cylinders and the high plateau
where
we raised our arms and ate
red
green white brown yellow.
He
sat behind a paper screen
held
wide open a wall of alphabet
black
and white an M a J an F
between
us. My crate full of toys.
His
slippered feet speed bumps or
sleeping
policemen he called them.
But
today when I burst through
onto
his lap the world exploded.
He
was the center and it did not
hold.
That was the day I met
his
anger. When did the days
begin
to have names? Sunday
was
a real day beginning to end.
Down
the avenue of trees we walked.
Hand
in hand with the giant
through
the dark tunnel.
It
was safe with him really.
We
came out onto a river bank
where
knots of men hunched
darkly
over their fishing poles
divining
the world beneath
the
surface. Each tied on
to
something I couldn't see.
Once
a log floated by. No
a
branch waving its shredded
stump
caught up in the current.
Until
I saw that the river
was
a wet road you could
not
cross. He answered
every
question I asked.
Tomorrow
will be Monday.
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