MUSED Literary Magazine.
Poetry

That Day

Leonard Henry Scott

On a brilliant, golden day of big bright eyes
and pleasant dreamings on the floral summer breeze,
we walked beneath blue perfect azure skies,
and laughed and talked and ambled through the trees.

With patient, youthful heads we solved the mystery of girls,
as we strolled through slats of sunlight in our park
and then devised a simple plan to build a brand new world.
Age old work completed and it wasnít even dark!

Then later in a downtown country bar we sat and ate
club sandwiches with beer thatís served in jars,
while trying to make some sense of Finnegans Wake
and wondering if there could be life on Mars.

Of course we skewered Hitler and refought the Civil War,
freed the slaves and saw Atlanta burning down.
We listened to the music, tapped our feet upon the floor
and argued who was better, Elvis Presley or James Brown.

Then aimlessly through city streets, walking on and on,
debating Marx and Fidel Castro, then stopping for more beers,
on a day to last forever, until I noticed it was gone,
disappeared in the swirling dust of marching years.

Yet, in its settled wake remains a residue of gloom,
a trace of mournful sadness for the moments slipped away.
But still, if dark and dismal silence filled all the corners of my room,
my heart would sing remembering that day.