There might have been a time When I wasn’t full of fear so topped off Like a gassy sombrero like a burrito left in the Sun to bake and there might have Been a Time When I hadn’t yet eaten a burrito landlocked In New England, locked in a small state of Fear and knowing that knowing just isn’t Enough. There might have Been A time when luxury was a nickel apiece paperback Book at the Unitarian Church fall sale to raise funds for Their roof. To raise their Roof. And there Might Have been a joy in my spark Plugs, A joy In my canter A Joy in My legs that preceded my Fears. There might Have Been a time: When I would pick one of the seven records we owned And delicately put it on the turntable, thinking I will Have my own money and buy my own music. When I idly lift the leaded paint from the 200 year old wood And scratch it to smell its sweet aroma. And put my hand on the glass pane Think hard enough and open your eyes and it will be 1838 again. Oh where are the people? Oh where when there might have been a time Did I not see who they are? Or they did not register. I must have watched them everyday Observant so keen to be seen Is it possible to feel so much for feeling so little? Or did I feel gulfs of embrace that were not there? I wanted and I desired and I dug. I craved and thought and speculated and clung. And there might have Been A time when I roared on my Schwinn down the long empty Roads of my town. Invoking our gods. Invoking my claims. There was a time when I stuttered with Compassion and could feel a touch observed There was a time: Across the street in a lit house at dusk. Their curtains are open, their lights are on. Oh, the sun has settled down There is that time, golden, when I Look into your kitchen, and the wallpaper is Blue and harvest gold with small pictures of oil lamps on Them and your walls are mustard gold. Your plates are unbreakable I see them lustre in the Overhead light, fashioned like a wagon wheel. Guns ablazin’. Trails awash. There might be a time when I can slip back Into your kitchen lick the plates and then Run my fingers over the wall paper. Tracing the outline of the oil lamps imprinted.
Growing up in a small rural town in Vermont. The boundlessness of it vs. the containment.