Sunday September 29, 2019
An American Dream
I’m tired of turning over every small speckled rock, looking under the books on the bookshelf one by one. I find ants, and dust. I find an inscribed copy of a book a lover gave me a long time ago. I find my worry amongst the anthologies and Shakespeare plays. Hunting for something out there, further away than the fingers can reach. The step stool only gets me so high. The will only pushes me so far. I take a small speckled rock and I put it in my pocket. I’ll cradle it when I lose faith, lose compass, lose. The books, some of them mine and some of them yours, are making a library of where we’ve come from, where we are.