I open the window and summer rolls in,
but not this summer, instead it’s one
from many years ago

I can smell mom’s cooking on the breeze,
and hear my dad call to circle under
the towering pop-fly he’s thrown

Air brakes of busses long gone to scrap,
the perfumed girls of then, I close
my eyes to journey

Behind my lids
I see light fade
then brighten

I pretend to need
to be home at six

That’s when
supper’s on

Chagall 2019

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