on sale perhaps at the thrift store near
the old magazines, a rubied coronet
or the faded floral dresses, garish scarves
and carried them away, having spent your lunch money;
feeling yourself changed somehow
as if a golden aureole surrounds your head.
and wondering, would anyone note the difference
when you slipped back into work
the things to file having grown for you meanwhile
in the inbox piled seven stories to the moon,
several times over.
but you will think in another language
in the office gloom as you resume captivity;
or part of one, at least;
or the one that you make up in your sleep,
dripping with fantastic colours
like the Northern Lights on display
dripping down the candle of the day.
the afternoon ticks by
and then the trains;
your dubious dinner made
but just before,
you plan the next week's splurge:
maybe the Crown Jewels cast aside
in a dusty showcase of old things
for new brides;
think of it! for only 75 cents...
you will envision bookshops in the rain
you're sloshing through
that have rarely been on earth:
the ones piled high with the charact'ry
Keats too richly conceived,
with little known fairy tales
in quaint spellings, that bear retellings;
etchings, done in moonlight.
and on a proverbial whim,
you'll spend the last of the gold for them
forgoing that new dress, figured, on fuschia.
and go to live in the hold
of the ship with the cold, cold
apples of silver
from an intricate lullaby;
or pluck for Hans Andersen
one january rose; one fugitive sky;
sent to guard the children
and to shield them from the snows.
mary angela douglas 22, 23 august 2016