James Thomas Hazard
1
Jack plays guitar at a bar called The Lamp
In a cozy, suburban college town
That was once the domain of citrus trees
But a city grows by tearing trees down
So he sings of woodlands and starry skies,
Of men who picked fruit for a dime a day,
The dust of Oklahoma on their clothes,
And how, like the dust, they were swept away
2
Joe closed the door of his shoe repair shop
Days after turning just sixty years old
But strokes are funny when it comes to plans
And so, with cash so scarce, the shop was sold
How cruel it is, he thinks, to live like this,
A ghost in a shell that defies my will
So he dreams of a boy he might have been
Who climbed every tree and never stood still
3
Carrie sometimes walks the house in her sleep
Pills and wine, she supposes, are to blame.
Her forests of dreams are richly haunted
But the ghosts won’t appear or say their name
She married young to a man she adored,
Planning the wonderful things they would do
He died before she lost their only child
So she grieves for them, and waits for them, too
4
A solitary girl drawn in pencil
Looks out the window of her attic room,
Perhaps at a swing that hangs from a tree
Or the boy whose life she’ll one day consume
She becomes him, bit by bit, day by day,
Until one day they’ll be one and the same
In a safe place, away from the others
Who wonder what’s wrong and who is to blame
5
A cool stillness has settled in the house,
The wreck and waste, Alice thinks, of a storm
Where once there had been a talent for talk
That made the house so inviting and warm
Friends call her daily to ask about Joe
And how she, poor dear, is getting along
He’ll get better, she says, and believes it
For hope has cost her too much to be wrong
6
Fires, spread by drought, above the canyon
Blaze through chaparral and trees as it sends
A rolling ball of smoke through the valley
Carried down by dry, Santa Ana winds
A solitary girl draws a picture
Of snow so brightly lit it seems to flash
In the sun. She wants to gather it up
In her arms. But it isn’t snow, it’s ash