Had we spent more this year on the garden?

 

If not this year, in the last few, since I’ve been away.

 

Since I’ve been in Boston or since I was young and spent time back here. Since the picnic with Lola. Did this garden grow in magnificence or did I never seem to notice it?

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The beauty. It’s a dangerous Midwest paradise.

 

This type of paradise doesn’t really exist-

 

since paradise is a word with an exotic tone to it.

And I can think of no place less exoticized than the Middle of America.

 

Plain like a white woman.

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Where did that picnic basket go, I wanted to use it three days ago for Cy’s 23rd birthday.

 

Where was I?

 

 Perhaps the same place that kept me from witnessing this garden  was the same place I go to constantly in those present day time lapses.

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What I mean is the trauma. What I am saying is the ice rink.

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An ode to a lost childhood. An ode to a lifetime of unlearning.