Neon journeys
Imagine many neon journeys, none
that end over dinner, or with words
spoken on the platform of the overnight express.
Afternoon by the lake, a bottle of wine shared
with a squall. Cherry blossoms blown,
the world excitedly pink, and no tree fallen.
Years of no event, followed by more,
each day a brilliant array of shifting hues
against the sea, the sky, the blue of a robin’s egg.
Children, and their children, peeling mandarins
in the garden, who always come back for the oranges,
as if to know that some colors never fade.
Taking to the byways, where depressed towns
recede into shades of red and rust: overflowing
junk stores still alive at the foot of an abandoned mine.
A slipping into sleep, the drained brightness of dreams,
aware of worlds foreign, more so on waking.
And telling the tale unites intimacy with strangeness.
Days of lime and roses, a sidewalk shuffle
to the station: day time neon that transports us
all the way home.
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Very nice poem.