DREAMS OF PLATO
She was as sweet as an orange blossom
leaping over newly born daisies.
Her feet wrapped in patent leather shoes
and a face as perfect as a moon, in autumn;
a product of two fine gems at Platos -
But, you won’t recall Platos or a blast as
hot as our sun changed the blossoms color.
Ignorance on the part of a lazy man, one
she married and never loved; now a poor
widow wearing imperfect burns.
But a small delicate flower is leaping.
She pumps a swing with her strong leg's
and runs faster then the boys from her
block. Her eye’s her grandmothers,
knowing everything as she rocks back and
forth.
That’s before the fire robbed her sight
before she sits alone on a faded pillow,
alone on her porch and sinking deeper
into earth.
She heard laughter from the playground
I watched as a tear roll onto her hollow
cheek as if a diamond sparkled and
she sees. . .
Her leg’s run, carrying her body to
the playground, where Platos once
stood. She leaps onto a slide
and her thighs burn.
Nancy Duci Denofio
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