Broken spark

Oh magical dance hall, where all the worn-out soccer players come holding their daughters
by the hand, leading them as far as they're able into the straw and noise of electronic
dance heaven. One looks down, his daughter asks ¿estás cansado papá?
as her pigtails start to grow out of their rubber bands. Sí, estoy cansado, he says,
smiling like a tired soccer player should. The lights make their arm hairs tingle.

In the convertible truck with the top down, I think of them and then make them into a book
on tape. In an actor's voice I bellow out the sound it makes as the two of them scratch
their names into America. "I, soccer dad," and "I, burning future, scraped spark." Let
the record show I thought of them.

The vitamins I would give her: a small blue pellet of cynicism, a box of everlasting crayons,
warm nights when all God gives is cold nights. A map of the dark.

Some handsome boy some day will get you pregnant. Some pill-popper will propose.
Pour a glass of apple soda, think hard, and then ignore whatever advice I would give you.
Run a hand across the table, this is how life should be, smooth and go out
the screen door into a night I have never known.

If you hear the broken sparks talking in their tremulous places in the night sky,
whisper back to them, and don't you ever tell me what you told them. "¿Estás
cansada?" "Yo, sí..."

The dance hall opens for business, and your pigtails run inside. You, in the meantime,
wait at the perimeter, nursing promises in the night.
posted by Adam at 1:15 AM [edit]