a memory of sorts

golden goose

i once thought there was actually a 
pot of gold
at the end of the rainbow
but the last night i drove through one
at the end of it, was just the simply the start of 
the wet rain-slicked road

when santa claus came every year in his fire-engine truck
with dancing elves that 
looked a lot like the kids from the nearby 
middle school pizza hut on the corner

mom told me that santa claus wasn't real,
but who could deny the white bearded man
outside my window that night that i thought
i was going to pillowland
and land fueled of fantasy and wonderful
and my own bedroom

if golden goose feathers were good luck
then i might have a pillow full of them
sticking my dreams between the soft dawny wings 
of my sleep
storing them away from the haters and takers of the world
keeping them for that harsh winter of sleep
where all the conscious negativity seeps in
building winged fortress around me
protecting slumber and secrets.


(title from traci kato-kiriyama)

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