Our lights were real lights –
those Edison bulbs
with their afterglow
when flipped to dark.
Our bread was real bread –
dough kneaded by hand
and left to rise into
floury arcs.
Our clothes were real clothes –
stitched thick and thoughtfully,
made to hem, to mend,
to keep.
Our nights were real nights –
sable stretches of silence
unbroken by
car sputter.
Our shoes were real shoes –
carefully cobbled
leather
and rubber.
Our fantasy was real fantasy –
accessible only
through ink and
patient flipping.
Our stories were real stories –
brimming with
love, war,
and tragedy.
Our forests were real forests –
untamed beyond
foot-trodden
paths.
Our schools were real schools –
filled with pencils,
papers, spelling,
and math.
Our thoughts were real thoughts –
they bloomed
right there
inside our minds.
Our time was real time –
every minute
our very own-
use or waste
destroy or create
the choice
was ours
and ours
alone.
pm poetry 