Fallen

It was mother-son time at the gallery because of a friends’ work
      in federal space, space married to polish, bi-tri partisan,
      swaddling the weight of the world.
Hugs and kisses, shuffle and hey,
      gesture towards earth dug and turned in
      row after row of cultivated color.

A few minutes to settle in,
our eyes moving faster than 80 beats per second
      rode across the surface of technique
      till forced, to stop
in front of an overly serious youth, about 5 years away from fireflies,
      his mouth molding an explanation,
      a love of peach pie an’ coke.

Then they all started talking, started telling stories – some lies or more politely termed
wishes
of what they wanted and won’t have, of what they had, in a heartbreaking sweetness,
their green lawns their girls and TV.
1300 – stood quietly telling, as we faced each.

There were lots of coins, quarters mostly, and dollars tucked under canvas,
notes – we miss you bobby – and a lone cigarette reminding me
      a 17 year old son in mother-son time
      somewhere nearby, oh,
      over there listening to those stucco’ed in dust

poured now into his breathing eyes,
faces twinkling like stars in a world beyond touch.
And signage reminding us to remember, as did the building, as did the fields.
Yet introduction might have been a better word for our time, or theirs,
in this glowing orchard of chalks.