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Upon a Backyard in New Jersey

My castle's turret was an obtuse chimney
protruding from the back.
Four eggshell plastic walls, without a true floor
only the trodden grass desperately seeking
the return of sun's kisses and the supposititious
sprinkling of the rain.

Maximum occupancy: 3,
declared by the fire marshal in a sign
hung
over the plastic foyer.

The summer sun streamed in through the thick plastic.
Insufferably hot,
we baked in the fire of the furnace with our
delicious imaginary cakes and pies,
sweet sweat trickling down our tan backs.

The big girls coaxed us to feast on oak leaves
it was supposed to bestow magical powers.
I never f
l
e
w
or made my sister disappear.
My money tree didn't sprout a dime.

Loud bellows from the sky crept closer.
Lightening licked the distant landscape.
Rain danced and swirled and pranced and skipped
above the roof, snaking in between the roof and wall
to drip onto our heads and shoulders and backs and feet.

The emerald of the roof sang out to our skinned knees
that cried out for band-aids
as we ventured to its highest, and only, summit
to gaze at the monkeys driving cars in pictures
painted by the most extraordinary artists, the clouds.

Learn more about this author, Erin Able.
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