Some Superstitious Morning

Some Superstitious Morning

Some morning
it will be all right.

Some mornings
it still seems
like pitch black night.

To see my beloved
almost in pirouette
down the side walked street
we were then in reality.

To begin this poem
maybe a section
on the stashed away
silver dollars.

How there could have been
so many
is surprising.

But in 1979 money
many different perspectives
could be observed.

I can remember
before they built
all the
old folks' homes
along there.

We'd cut down
the hill
for groceries.

Or a gallon of beer
from
Little Brown Jug.

There was
a big pile of dirt ad gravel
there on the empty lot.

I remember her
sitting on it
proudly posed and aware.

They are looking for her
one dark morning
as she wandered in the snow
singing a bristly melody.

We were there
now we
simply look back.

From a Cloud Coo Coo Land
to that
undiscovered country.

We are of the future
we are
the dead.

-Will Dockery 2020