How easily she could say,
‘it’s all in your mind—’
deny, dismiss what she knew
could be true, if we let it
when we were children
pretending to be grown up—
playing games
with our imaginations,
mornings drumming music
on eucalyptus roots
before the school bus stopped
our spontaneous chants.
With rusty tools and sticks,
horse drawn relics
and Model T wrecks
we took off for town—
took turns driving
wild steeds or hot rod cars
depending on time—just
as much as we wanted
to get there.
drycrikjournal 