Crackers, crumbs, and milk in little carton drums.
I held mother’s hand and smelled the day so grand:
Chalk coming off the board in clouds,
Crayons held in new-formed hands, and
Blocks of wood all ready to stand.
All our cubbies lay right by the door,
Where we placed all that we brought,
all that our mothers and fathers thought
would make us what we would become;
all that would set our clay to marble-grand.
The room smelled of hope and bright eastern sun.
The room smelled of wood and bright colored fun.
The room smelled of promise and crisp new clothes.
The room smelled of smiles and pink-colored bows.
play in kindergarten bands.
These were the days when all could be gold,
when none of our fools showed their true face,
when none of our promise was broken and spilled,
and none of our parents died under their wheels,
when all could be fixed by
crackers, milk and small blanket sips,
when all of our curls were just so,
and no one laughed at our club-footed toe.
We were at the edge of all that could be,
Tree-top houses were in our future, you see.
Jack was sitting on white-painted seat,
Camelot was forming ‘round high-city stage,
and space’s frontier was laid at our feet.
Before bullet sang into President’s pate,
before Junior bled in Egypt’s old town,
before Dick hid the heist from the gate.
We sat in a circle, as we were taught,
as a dark-headed girl edged to the door,
her legs cradled in steel,
her hand cradled in flesh,
her smile cradled in bashfulness.
played in kindergarten bands.
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