by Matt Lally

Sparks fly in Shattuck Park, kindling fires of imagination.
Cross your legs and sit on carpets of needles; drag and let it fill you;
Lean back against the rock or doodle in the dirt like Jesus.
A nod, a toss, another light.
Free as a bird when the three o'clock sun filters through the leaves:
Prevailing patchwork light with scattered orange points.
A car stereo bass joins the marching band competition,
And the Queen of Casual watches another happy couple:
They're doing the Shattuck Park Shuffle, skidding a little on the leaves.
She scribbles in her notebook, in amongst the Chemistry,
All the things that high school girls scribble when they don't know what to say.

Hey, my girl's got her license; she drives a beat-up wagon
With scrunchies ringed around the gearshift.
She picks me up for school, even though I live close by.
We sing along with the radio
With feeling.
She slips the sweetest little notes into my locker, written with a purple pen, and
Sometimes she waves to me from the hall when I'm in class;
She's got a pass.
This afternoon, we'll go walking in Shattuck Park,
Kicking up leaves as we go.

...

In English class, the teacher never remembers your name;
She talks about short stories, calling all the boys "Mark."
Rocking back and forth on her feet, she reads aloud:
A piece of fiction that has a unity of impression and can be read at a single sitting.
Why, it's as American as Jazz!
(But is it as free?)
Man, you should have seen her ... praising Edgar Allen Poe.
Hooray for Poe!  Hooray for American Art!
But we don't actually read Poe, and Stephen King's a sure no-go;
We've got the Jilting of Granny So-and-So, and Walter Mitty's spreading, you know.
I would prefer not to.

Her arms hang uselessly, like a dinosaur's; I count the squares on the ceiling.
And rock 'n' roll isn't poetry,
And those who are right are not always right,
And those who are popular are not always cheerleaders.
(And twelve times eleven is one-thirty-two.)
What's that, Mark?
Hey, my girl's in a band.  Well, the band.  Which, yeah, makes improv kind of dangerous.
So, all right, you keep marching, sure — but you've also got to dance.
Teacher's got ink on her face:  a very good joke, indeed.
American art?  Or artifact?  For the love of God, Montresor!
Hands in the air:
So do improv stories exist only in the distant sparks of prehistoric fireside chats?

...

In lieu of Christmas, let's send Epiphany cards this year:
Pithy revelations to the world that say things like,
Buddy, look at the clouds and kites and grass;
Yes, even down at the sidewalk:
Raised, broken concrete sidewalk slabs testify to the power of growing roots.
You'll get yours while sweeping poinsettia leaves from the floor,
While watching roses parade along the Colorado Boulevard.
Still farther west, daisy chains hold subtle dominion. And my girl gets it.
We sense the divine in one another; sometimes she leads, sometimes I do.
Good intentions cobble also the way to heaven.

I shuffle through Shattuck Park as slanting rays reflect off nearby windows.
Off the path, I crouch next to a hollowed-out tree stump;
The sun can hardly penetrate the shallow woods,
And I rub my hands together over the rotting shell.
Imagine some old crone there with me:  my girl in another time.
Her bent back arches her spiderwebbed face close to mine, and
She tells me tales by my fake fire, and
Sparks fly in Shattuck Park:  sparks to kindle the coming snow images.
I follow them where they take me.
The wind rustles leaves overhead; my feat rustle leaves on the ground;
The leaves whisper me.