having a wild time
play pillow fighting with my kid
triggers the image of that blissful
ice cream stand just shut down
and abandoned in the woods
across from the institution
right when the leaves
started to change color
heading to the berkshires
somewhere on top that mountain in that pasture
called sky farm where that family all with
the very high-pitched voices sold crisp
apples which you soon were gonna
dip into a warm kettle of caramel
leading to your final destination
when there were final destinations
stagecoach inn with the roaring fireplace
and great lopsided pumpkin pine floors
where revolutionary war heroes really
did go to warm up their weather worn
bones right below the foot of some
chilly drizzly dusk silhouetted
blazing autumn mountain
splintered haunted keyholed rooms
which all felt like knotholes portholes
bread and butter golden glow to the holy
hidden scarred heart and soul all bundled
snug as a bug in a rug behind flickering lace
curtain shadows the phantoms behind latches
and bouncing radiators and babbling brook you
could faintly hear murmuring through the flutter
of shutters over a rattling kitchen which kept
your steak and sangria and warm biscuit
dream buzz going up to all hours...
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