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Martin Booth

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American Dreams

I have this idea.

Somewhere, there’s a plot of land: tall maples
waving, goldenrod beckoning like crazy and,
in the cover, the red flash of a cardinal. And
in my hand is my daughter’s hand
and - boy! - she’s happy. And,
later, as the sun dips over Monadnock
(maybe) she touches a lightning
bug and it shows her the way.

I have this idea.

The freeway stretches to eternity. Big
brash Buicks overtake the stately ghosts of
prairie schooners. The horns’re honking. The
whips’re cracking. The coyotes may be
howling - who can tell? And, in a vast white Coupe
de Ville my son rides smiling. His arm’s on the
door. Bill ‘n’ me’s singing Love Me Tender - and
we three do, this world.

I have this idea.

The cabin’s dark and the late sun’s melting
up the waters of the lake. I’m a way up
the shore, lonesome me. I down a Lite, look
back and there’s Bill with Mary. My lady
Helen’s there. The charcoal’s a-glow. Bear
steaks wait their turn on the griddle. I hear
her voice. She’s laughing. The woods
absorb her joys like memory.

I have this idea, too...
What’s the use of wayward dreams,
if you don’t want to make ‘em true?

Page(s) 26

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