Of a Recess

Watching from near the gate,
counting leaves from the tree limb
that hangs over the honeysuckle.
Being seven,
in all its dusty playground glory.
Sweet fleeting recess
with strangers
that might be friends
once they overlook my odd name
and different accent.
Holding the sweater sleeve
up to my nose, inhaling
mother’s lingering Jean Naté
and Virginia Slims.
Shifting feet over acorns and pebbles,
remembering a river
I hadn’t seen yet
but knew was there waiting.
Wondering at how time stretched
to lose track of home
even though I never forgot to imagine
each room as it would be.

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