Can Only a Young City Dream?

“Get back here,” she'd say,Not knowing where I wasOn Sundays, late,The neighborhood settling in,A trailer park—Window blinds split,Toys left, forgottenIn overgrown grass—nearby.I was playing with cars,Carved out dirt,Lanes and parking spots,Houses with lawns,A city formed.

She didn't know—The night creeping,Tones fading, my figureMerged with the unkeptThicket—where I wasWhen she'd call me back to the house,And I'd sit and waitAs time passed,Until I'd sleep and awaken,My city weathered.

Years later, I'd swellInto a being so poisedI'd let rust build then paintOver it with a strokeAnd no wire brush;But in those early times,I—a leaf,Near green—I held no gripeAnd rebuilt the city,Carved out of dirt,Lanes and parking spots,New houses,New lots.