262. GALAHAD GLEN

GALAHAD GLEN
Fourteen houses with no end in site;
leaning doorways and twisted yards.
Over the horizon, far different meadows
creep - hillock, burdock, clover and tuft.
Silence breeds like a fever. Milkweed pods
sneeze themselves forward and scatter.
-
'I'm working this from memory, kid'.
The guy said that swallowing salad by
the forkful. He continued: 'When I was a little
boy, it seemed everything was brand new -
everywhere I went things still had their shine.
Now, by contrast, it's all crap and garbage.'
I wanted to (at least) pretend to get his point.
-
No matter how I tried, I couldn't.
'Well then,' I said, 'where were you when
it all flamed out?' He looked at me and
nodded, still gulping something down.
'By then, I was living in Galahad Glen, and
everything was good. Why should I complain?
I figured. I'd just live as best I could. That was
long ago; anyway, now it's all over,
and here I am. Still enjoying life,
believe it...or not.'