bliss station ~ poetry

packers & movers

you said they read to you
when a child -
no one read to me.

in a dream, I grow up
the stairs to the library
& end up in the playground
& I play whatever it is
with that orange ball.

error is realized
only when I unsleep
undream; if a dream
can be wrong why
not a memory shape -

I walk up to that moment
stitching hammers &
erecting emotions &
blowing things up &
okay, I am making this up
turning strangers into yous -
we never talked, you never
said, I am digging wells
to draw words from -

seen from a height -
packers and movers
of forced growing up -

only one chair is left
& now I'm just unfurling
the carpet, I unload them
from the truck & pack them
in a previous house -

does that count
as coming of age
or is a body some
thing more genetic?

~Ajay
10/9/2019