We floatÂed our beds like rafts down the wide Mississippi,
fought riverÂboat pirates, strugÂgled in curÂtains of labyrinth junÂgles,
skirtÂed our feet around volÂcanic coals of the in-floor furÂnace.
We carÂried on like phanÂtoms in secret sociÂeties of shadÂow,
on towards the Alamo – wearÂing our capes, waitÂing for flight.
We nevÂer imagÂined, at all, that those ways would not be
the ways we would choose in livÂing our lives. I watch my chilÂdren
wonÂderÂing if I was ever able to teach what is not so much me, now,
that once there were heroes and could be again. But it is late,
too late to worÂry if I was metaphor enough of a child’s dreams.
Perhaps it is time, as in ancient Chinese cusÂtom, when old men
has fulÂfilled their houseÂhold and social duties, disÂcharges attachÂments
and goes out into the forÂest to seek again his Mother and Father,
and after all of this:
Everything.
