Crysta

 
 
 
Crysta eats peanut butter spoon from jar.
Looks longingly out the big picture
window of her parents’ home.
A busy squirrel swirls over the lawn,
chitters at the suddenly appearing
barking white scrappy terrier
attached to a leash held
by oh so wonderful, casual, assured
laughs at animal antics
takes you home
feeds you wine and music
soothes so warmly.
 
Crysta dreams
wild auto-car ride into
hilly fields arrayed in
white, yellow, green
wild flowers smile into
split-screen Sun.
 
She tells her dolls incredible tales.
Monkeys live in the hills, hidden in
treetops. Late at night, they sneak
into our souls to dance in ecstatic
romance, leave us wise in ways we have
no business. Please, take soul, my
plastic playmates, monkey-dance with me.
.
.
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