John Kearns ~ Without Purpose

Driving nowhere in particular,

The warm breeze
The sweet smooth smoke
Of the laughter
Of friends.

I smiled.

“Tomorrow I’ll think this is a dream,” I thought.

On the sidewalks
Lines in sad cement
Read that she had walked there

But now jokes and giggles.

Tomorrow I’ll think this is a dream

Limbs hollowed
Eyes frozen with wonder
We gazed
Through the fence
At lost summer

Afterwards
Sleeping rows of houses
Silence
Neglected moon
Broken radio

And the car sailed around
Without purpose: fun.

 

John Kearns writes from Ireland. Read more of John’s poetry in DM 91 ~ Kinderszenen.

AF 17

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