Fran’s Woven Glass

There is a tapestry of life
with distorted dreams
and chaotic threads
that pull one day
into the next.

First one, then two,
then a blurring of a thousand
oil stained slats
that form a fallen ladder
holding up the train
as it fills the blue sky
with cheetah blackened soot.

And all the rubbing inside
can’t clear the outside
nor bullets stop the frantic love
that drove Bonnie and Clyde
to lie upon the dust
of a desolate road
deep in the piney woods.

So little Polly and I
couldn’t know our paths
as we made hollyhock dolls
and set them floating
first one, then two,
in a rutabaga platter dance
blurring a thousand dreams
of ours on Curry Street.