Can Only a Young City Dream?

by Gavin Thagard

 

“Get back here,” she'd say,

Not knowing where I was

On Sundays, late,

The neighborhood settling in,

A trailer park—

Window blinds split,

Toys left, forgotten

In 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 figure

Merged with the unkept

Thicket—where I was

When she'd call me back to the house,

And I'd sit and wait

As time passed,

Until I'd sleep and awaken,

My city weathered.

 

Years later, I'd swell

Into a being so poised

I'd let rust build then paint

Over it with a stroke

And no wire brush;

But in those early times,

I—a leaf,

Near green—I held no gripe

And rebuilt the city,

Carved out of dirt,

Lanes and parking spots,

New houses,

New lots.

Gavin Thagard is a writer out of Atlanta, GA, though he tries to limit himself to no single art. Gavin is an actor and director, currently developing a play he's written. In 2014, he won the Carson McCullers Literary Award for an expository piece in Arden, a literary magazine from Columbus State University, titled 'Stephen Crane's Maggie: Finding Meaning in Existence.' He has also written both poetry and short fiction, of which he hopes you enjoy.

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August 2018

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