Behind the scaled-down images there lurk
the scaled down dreams of future lives-- perhaps
of incarnations silently recalled
by little girls with vision far less blind
than little boys, who would forsake the gate
and scarcely see the whitewashed picket fence
along Peace Lane.
We walked together, she and I, and gained
or lost a century without a care,
then pausing there untouched by age or time,
were suddenly at home, and though it was
too much inclined to the postiche and far
too lovely, she and I could then perform
a step into dimensions that
I only thought I knew.
Of course it was a given, she would lead
me to another view, though I protest
a movie-set facade so much a part
of someone else's dreams, for it spoke more
of me than comfort would allow. I saw
a book of life in which the pages mocked
my own somnambulistic journey home,
my own defense against reality.
And then we saw the open side, and there
the little rooms cut out, showed little beds
and chairs that may be moved about, but strange...
the tiny people always stayed away
as if the president would come to call,
and they are suddenly unworthy.
There the little souls might sleep
or sip at tea with giants watching, if
they dared, but no, the house is empty, much
too quiet, too pristine, and even presidents
would presidentially demur.
She took my hand, and asked me if
I like it. I, too, broke the silence, "Yes.
I think it's grand. Might it be one that you
would live in?" "No, it's beautiful" she said,
"but never home enough,