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
the sun changed the color of the blossom.
Ignorance on the part of a lazy man, one
she married and never loved; now a poor
widow imperfect burns.
But a small delicate flower is leaping.
She pumps a swing with her strong legs
and runs faster then the boys from her
block. Her eye’s her grandmothers,
knowing everything as she rocked
back and forth.
That’s before the fire, robbed her sight
alone, she sits on a faded pillow.
Alone on her porch and sinking deeper
She heard laughter from the playground
I watched as a tear roll onto hollow
cheeks as if a diamond sparkles and
she sees. . .
Her leg’s run, carrying her body to
the playground, where Platos once
stood, and leaps onto a slide
and her thighs burn.
Nancy Duci Denofio
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