Treasure

Hell's a small town of empty schoolyards.
No bicycles careen around corners,
no afternoon noises from the yard
except birdsong so faint
it might be memory
and the creak of thick hemp
that hangs an old truck tire
unoccupied
swaying in the breeze.
Down by the pond,
uncaught frogs
and perpetually
undisturbed lilies.
No scraped knees,
and no "finish your peas."

Heaven's a vast universe
where, when any child laughs
all the grownups smile,
and any time a child cries
we drop what we're doing
and move to the sound.

This place is in between,
and after all the buy-and-sell,
keep-your-guard-up biz,
you count the faces of the day,
and find in so few
that the kid they once were
still lives, somewhere
just behind the eyes

who no longer pesters frogs
or plunders lilies,
but always leaves a few peas
on the dinner plate
an old habit, I suppose,
or maybe a small green spell
cast to keep a bicycle called Time
from careening around the corner.