Monday, April 17, 2006

Of Dixie Cups

Nickels were seldom—hard wages of toil.
Held as trophies; buffed upon shirtsleeves.
Never risked for marble gaming,
Always spent with careful pause.

Held to my eye—closer—closer still,
This tiny coin could hide the sun.
If tossed toward sky to roll and tumble,
Returned as chief, or buffalo.

Tempt me now the nickel cup—
this silky cream creation?
An elixir crafted for summer heat
To heal and chill my thistled throat.

The treat is spent, the cardboard clean.
This lid has masked exciting finds.
Now show me stars and prairie gods,
I save the heroes all.

I place them with my arrow points
And books of stamps vast worlds away.
Treasure troves beneath the bed,
The place where all my secrets live.

Among these faces I hold ten aside.
Each likeness same—this Shelley Winters.
I think my mama looked like she.

Best as I recalled.

Lines of poetry © Copyright 2006 by Lad Moore. Image courtesy of: