I have unfinished business.
I have a childhood to repair.
I have a forest to cut down
and restore,
and stars that need replacing.
A few will remain,
and the bay will keep its contour.
There is the sweet smell of cinnamon
and bread, in the bakery
by my grandmother’s house.
That will always be a corner I go to,
on my way to school,
where I failed reading,
and loved heaven.
This has all to do with nothing
as I stand in line at the grocery,
and watch faces,
as I stare at the television
and leave books accumulate,
unread on my stand.
For I have become serious.
I have a question for the water,
the islands,
the boats that never stop sailing.
For Sandusky and Warren Street,
and a brother who died in battle.
I have a question
regarding the dust on my shoes,
and the apples
that filled my childhood
with sweet fragrances.
Tell me if you can,
how many universes there are,
and unnumbered souls
that belong to me?
How many times I listened
by a silent window,
and waited for the end of time,
so that
I could be an old man
and see how perfect
it all is,
and how nothing need change,
except a childhood to repair.