Oh, I’d like to live in the land
where the LEAFY MANGO tree grows,
a land, I am sure, of milk and honey
Oh, I’d like to be the one who picks
the fruit, heavy and sweet,
to load it all up in the WAGON, hawking
my wares: “Fresh, juicy fruit!” I’d call,
“king of fruits for sale!”
Oh, I’d love to see the happy faces,
hear the contented sighs
as I traveled with my cart of ripe fruit
in the land of mangoes

Georg’ann

Driving down College Avenue
early in the morning, sky
pale grey and cloudless.
Restaurant scents FLOAT
warm yeast, butter and BACON.
Woman walks briskly, folds
of RAYON swish around her hips.
I spot MASON pulling his children
in their red Radio Flyer WAGON.
Town just beginning to wake up.
Parking spots mostly empty,
no sandwhich boards
on the sidewalk. Morning
runners move through the chill
with skimpy shorts, no shirt.
They are not looking to be served.
It’s peaceful this waking up
of the city. Softly lit preparations.
Ah, this prelude to the day ahead.

Heather