Peter Pan
has thrown himself
under a train.
the day
of everlasting
rain those
never ending dreams
pounded to transparency.
What good will
it do to tell
the children
they must grow
older strange hair
sprouting from
stranger places
their unlined faces
someday turning
creased and worn?
It’s the adults
lost, forlorn,
pocketing once bright
pictures of
railway stations and
far-off places
creased and folded
by the new sweetness
of those unpremeditated
glances
and limitless
chances just beyond
the camera lens.
Let them gather
With their gaggle of
friends and chase each
other round and round
the grass.
Oh please don’t tell them
of Peter Pan
and his demise—just
let him pass.
Don’t say
a word until
it’s time.
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