Do you remember the playground
where children swarmed, climbing
the backbones of ancient leviathans?
A man sold half-eaten legends
from the debris of empire,
rusted machine guns in the basement.
(sign me up)
Indian bones and arrowheads
poke through packed earth,
fingers straining against thin cloth.
I suppose we all duck the evidence
in search of answers,
making our own sense from symbols
on scientific calculators.
(here is where we solved for x)
Upstairs, old men and women
chant themselves to sleep each night,
embellishing with cadenced recall
skirts and toys and sunny Saturdays.
I am full of red wires now,
redundant circuits, ticking louder.
(everything temporary sounds like forever)
Forged bank notes blow down an empty highway.
The first blue norther rolls down the plains.
Now comes the thunder.
This started from the wordle list at Big Tent Poetry.