by Willow Rose
Thomas wanted to travel: he thought
he’d hitch a ride on some shell pink clouds,
float through melted emerald skies
bright as an anemone;
Thomas dreamed this as a child,
and borrowed wings from Icarus
to speed him on his way.
Thomas wanted to fly: he thought
he would flow through silvered moonbeams;
sip from starshine straws
on nighttime wonder in the sky,
until the pearly dawn turned golden
Thomas dreamed this as a man
but waxen wings curtailed his flight.
Crash diving into a greasy garage,
Thomas works twelve hours a day.
Traveling through metal bowels on his back,
a gnome-like figure with oil stained hands;
flashing his toothless grin.
plying his wrench with skill.
Thomas burns his hands on my engine,
then charges me half of what I owe
and watches me speed away in my car
dreaming his dreams as I go.
©Willow Rose 2011