You come to Dallas with a duffle bag
full of expectations:
"Power brings fame and fortune."
"Security fosters love."
"Prosperity breeds truth and beauty."
You pull these crushed little paper dolls
out of the bag and try to straighten them out
and stand them up on the sidewalk in front of
Neiman-Marcus downtown store so that
the people of Dallas can see what dreams
you have for yourself:
A father with a strong chin and a smile and bikini underwear
leans casually against the cold, black marble wall.
You rummage for his rumpled suit. Two tabs are missing
so you lean the suit against him
with a bit of spit.
His wife is lovely, still wearing a smart skirt
and frilly blouse, bent in half she is, though,
a bit too delicate for the dust and smoke. Perhaps
she's just driven him to work. You try to stand her up
at right angle to the man but the wind keeps
blowing her away.
And so you just prop her up against the wall beside him.
The children play behind a waxed soft drink cup
turned upside down for a house. John and Susie
in shorts and tee shirts are penned securely between
the wall and the cup.
You turn to look up at the people around you. Your
imagination, it seems to you is boundless.
The crowds hurry by or stand with their backs to you,
waiting for busses. They look at you from the
corners of their eyes. Everyone except black youth
who poke fun of you ("Jive turkey") and bag ladies who
stab at you with paranoid steel stares.
You can avoid this craziness when you live in the country.
You can sit quietly on the front porch of your cabin in the woods
and imagine that the world is beating a path to your door.
And when it doesn't arrive you can believe that it is still coming.
The silent patience of the forest reinforces this illusion.
In Dallas you find yourself looking into the transparent red eyes
of an alcohol boiled bum who decides to squat beside your
paper dolls, neither afraid of your craziness nor impressed
by your art. He leans over quietly and whispers,
"Welcome to Paradise."
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copyright 2007 by Larry L. Dill