Comma

There is a violet panel. There is a glass hummingbird

for an old lady. There is a moment.

I once whispered to a car going 3,000 miles an hour

and he heard me. Or was that the imagination

of some other child. I once had a

glass apple from Perth slip from my hands just shy

of the living room carpet. And so, it goes. Upon the sea

a child’s imagination cupped to the sound of a seashell

and what shall be his name? Four hundred and forty two

miles of waves crashing upon the sound of evening.

I was never a child. I never dreamed except for disdain

of Gilligan’s Island and wanted instead to be anywhere,

anywhere but here.

There is a barstool beside the waiter.

There is a comment upon her fingertips as she reaches

slowly across the…

There is a child. One in a million.

There is a Saturday and a Sunday.

A Lawnmower and a tithing plate.

There is a sound that goes woosh.

And a child.