Seat me in a laneway lined with maple trees,
And gift me,
a slight southern breeze.
With a cocktail in hand,
I’ll be ready.
Just relax to sand, the concrete at my feet,
and entreat the ocean through this grate.
But conceal the impurities of my beleaguered city
lest they taint my equatorial dream.
As you work, I will wallow in fancy,
Venturing deep into the oasis,
surrounded by graceful palms;
Their quaint voices softly soothing
not just scars of mine,
but all, throughout the hood.
And while I recline,
I would not mind youths
with red buckets and blue shovels
burying me neck to heels in sand,
For under that sandy blanket
will I peacefully dream
those scars unseen.