There were mice, and even Smaller creatures holed up in the rafters. One would raise its thumb, or frown, And suddenly the clouds would part, and the whole Fantastic contraption come tumbling down. And the arcade of forgotten things Closed in the winter, and the roller coaster Stood empty as the visitors sped away Down a highway that passed by an old warehouse Full of boxes of spools and spoons. I wonder if these small mythologies, Whose only excuse for existing is to maintain us In our miniscule way of life, Might possibly be true? And even if they were, Would it be right? Go find the moon And seal it in the envelope of night. The stars are like a distant dust And what the giants left lies hidden in full view. Brush your hair. Wipe the blood from your shoes. Sit back and watch the firedance begin. —So the rain falls in place, The playground by the school is overrun with weeds And we live our stories, filling up our lives With souvenirs of the abandoned Factory we have lingered in too long.
From North Point North by John Koethe, published by HarperCollins. Copyright © 2002 by John Koethe. Reprinted by permission of the publisher. All rights reserved.