In my spaceman’s silver suit I walked fast,
Thrilled through azaleas hung over the path,
Sat in the waiting room for many years.
Often the nun slid the wooden square slow,
So I raised in my chair, bent to the grill,
To see an eye that said she could not come.
Sometimes I opened the door to see snow
Or imagined scenes where the summer lawn
Held us in its frame like a cat’s swung cage
When taken to a new life, to mouse hard,
Sleep going on when the wooden square slides,
When punished feet walk red on white gravel.
There was a bear, gathered lilies that squeaked,
Cut with a claw he then held to his eye.

© Steve Walker all rights reserved