By Maren Larson
Five pairs of bored child feet loll on the backs of
And seven voices sing:
“Buffalo soldier, dreadlock rasta, stolen from Africa,
Brought to America.”
Eyes half closed, catching snatches of red and orange and orange
flashing through my empty head.
With a gasp and a chorus of swiveling necks
The trees give way to houses,
Houses dreamed of by children:
Houses that wish they were bungalows;
Houses with swings and bridges;
Every one hangs over the water.
Five child faces press against the glass
As Paradise-by-the-Lake floats by.
The last thing we see is a ready and redly gleaming skiff
Anchored at a spindling dock
And one small boy with a stick and a hat,