When I was five I fed the geese that visited our city park.
A man in a plaid beret was writing words I would never read.
The street lamps lit his cigar through the viscous unfolding mist.
Now he no longer exists- The plaid beret and the lit cigar no longer exist.
Fidgety geese are still searching for leftover birdseed.
He left his footprints poetized on the snow;
he puffs his tobacco in whispers that seep into the pleats of my dreams.
I watch a little girl in a pink dress and red boots.
She laughs and tosses bread to a hundred insatiable tongues.
She does not know how the geese become trained by the loaf.
Now she no longer exists- The red boots and the pink dress no longer exist.
Restlessly pacing geese crave soggy crumbs.
She left her footprints stenciled on the snow;
her vapor laughter silhouettes ghosts in the sheets of my dreams.
Nicotine stains the park bench as a young man’s cigarette burns the mist.
The communal honk of geese quakes in his forlorn ears.
As he sits in his motley collage of apparel, I write words he will never read.
Now he no longer exists- The cigarette and the collage no longer exist.
The foolish geese wait for their instincts to kick in.
He left his footprints tattooed on the snow;
his seismic shivers run through the quilt of my skin to wake me
from my dreams.
– Intuitive Ginger