The Smallness

There should be a name
for the smallness
that rushes in
as we vacate lives
the color of sawdust
To peek into lost green spaces
where clover tickles idle toes
tiny desks obey in rows, perfect
Dalian dreams unfurl against
soft backs in narrow beds
Just before the last crumbs
kiss the bend in the road
where dreams become
too vast for small brown hands
The first and last voice
beckons to the waking table
where tidy meals like sunrises
come from a place unseen
to nourish a space within
Momma’s words tumble
into a staccato hymn
boy, stay clear of the police
forever in that haunted gap
between memory and living

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