So Much

Until that time that we grew old,

We danced alone on wooden floors,

On perfect tiles once carved in love,

And Tupperware and plastic crowns,

were passed to water garden plots,

Near patios for Motorcars,

To race the endless asphalt lots,

And every day in catalogs we ordered dreams for pointless time,

Low loungers shipped to trim backyards,

Where fathers working on green plots,

that no one ever really used,

between the endless hours away,

Indentured to the trimming blades in never-ending workday sun,

Without the chance to sit or rest,

We kept the stage for gathering of parties where is grown each year,

the tulip bulbs to show at fairs,

in sweet contests that syncopate the pattern of another proof

of things that flower once and all,

Until our slippers are worn out in singled steps so barely heard,

Until alone from emptiness,

The rooms that once were barely filled and stained by all the growing up,

Are sitting looking visit-less,

In quietness

the worn green grows back and fills the place below the paths that were worn off,

And behind the door returns a patch,

And nothing swings or slams or squeaks,

No lights are lit,

No beds unmade,

No banging drawers,

To Break the early morn,

Then gone are noisome calls

of hurt or shrieks of joy beyond the doors,

So falls that unexpected night,

So much does quiet finally come.

-Albert Turner Goins