It was a mild day in the middle of the summer, not the type that glued your shirt to your back, but the type where the soft spoken wind whistled easy, breezy tunes if you weren’t too busy to listen. Me, being a kid, I was never busy.

The pencil soars across the black page
painting imagination, uniqueness
illuminating places concealed in the corner of your mind
bringing eccentric beasts into the fabric of reality
blustering winds rush over once serene, quiet glades
rainbows tango in the sky

Although I have never been,

I can smell the condensed aroma

of fresh bread in the bakery,

occupying its place in the noses of bypassers.

Although I have never been,

I can distinguish between the flavor

of black and green olives,

home can be anywhere with a song
a constant melody
an extravagant sound

warmth without sun
cold without ice
feel anyway you’d like

Even if the school desks
Are perfectly aligned
And the chairs evenly spaced
And the walls precisely decorated
And the white boards
Sparkling white,

Standing in the middle of the stage
microphone taped to my face
singing my heart out

Handcuffing the mass murder who
has been loose for decades
lowering his head
into the cop car

This place, that place, there are so many in which I can be,
But I choose that one, the one where I can be free.
It can be a place where the sun shines at the crack of dawn,
A place that is so dreamy it can make me yawn.
This place is there for me night and day,