The Carport Dreams Of Old Birthday Parties

once they gathered in their party frocks

the same polished cotton worn on Sundays

or, if not, the piano recital dresses

the ones with sashes at the back

with too many petticoats.

and they'd just had their ice cream

and the air was flavored with pale pink,

the humid air of August.

why didn't the paint peel?

and where did they go

when the presents were opened?

here they came

not in the time of candy canes

or the evergreens across the street

so lightly laced with snows-

taking turns with a handkerchief blindfold

pinning the tale on the donkey

tacked onto the carport wall.

they were so small.

it was all so festive.

how I miss their little ghosts.

mary angela douglas 15 april 2015