By Timothy Gersten
built on decaying roots of wavering attention
mid-afternoon daydreams sprout elephants from water vapor,
suspended in the sky by magic, or science
depending on who you ask.
under desks couriers transport
time sensitive messages.
written in number two pencil on wide ruled paper:
do you like me, yes or no?
left with a twenty-four pack of crayons,
buildings eight and a half inches tall
reach towards a limitless sky
not bound by rationality.
brilliance flashes through toothy grins,
quick wit and giggles overpower the scream
of chalk on a blackboard.
paying no attention to the writing on the wall.
the vast universe dwindles with each autumn.
rockets, once made of cardboard boxes,
are now boxy cars on a morning commute
listening to public radio.
if dandelions can burst through concrete,
only to bloom a spot of sunshine
and spread dreams with the breath of a child,
then why are they called weeds?
and why must they be removed?