Four-wheel
roving, we make headway,
Bounding for boondocks, landlocked from creature
comforts, large luxuries, little miseries.
Our ministry is for ourselves.
(Ghost Children hate to freeze, so we please
them and go off alone.)
The cabin, quilted of logs, is a curled cocoon,
Snuggled in snow days.
We make our play for the old door: Padlocked
is unlocked,
Taking stock,
Pegging our rustic clothes behind boards,
Cold floors beg us to start a fire,
Fuel the heater,
Shake the shelves for the bare necessities.
Getting going, a wood you fire teasing,
Tearing up the town
Lies down, bounces, splatting shadows, flat,
at the Backboard, back wall, then stands up and
Cheers.
We fear it could burn down the house,
But it settles, accepts its situation and simmers
to a low hissssssss,
Amicable kissing flame pointing to the four-poster
that
Sleeps us, keeps us together, warm and downy,
Comfortable.
Here, we are always singing and dancing,
Romancing,
Practicing for perfect,
Re-arranging the steps and songs,
Marveling: such nifty variety for eight Notes,
Quoting all the master painters and the Great
Composers.
Improvising, we have tea on a chair,
Take down a picture and dance with Fred Astair.
Undercover,
I tell you all the best jokes, collected, recollected,
To tickle your funny bone and
Keep you guessing
What I've got up my sleeve,
Wearing the smile I keep
For such occasions.
You play the game, though no one's keeping score,
But if they did, the odds are in my favor.
My blood-lust for winning adds a flavor to the
match.
Diving into our tent
For fear of bears,
For things that go bump in the night,
We create one last carnival of fun:
Laughing hysterically,
Losing our sanity,
Sparks flying,
One last rollercoastering ride,
Gone with the wind-
Hold on tight!
(April 13, 1988)
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