Frank C. Modica
My brother and I walk to a park
after watching a cartoon about
Tom Sawyer and Huck Finn
rafting on the Mississippi River.
We never dream about rafting
the sludgy Chicago River that winds its way
past oily factories and the Union Stock Yards
north and west of our home; instead, we paint
the white clouds overhead with our fingers.
We think we know the language of clouds—
nimbus, stratus, cirrus;
like we know the names of birds
we learned in kindergarten;
cardinal, blue jay, robin red breast,
like the names and colors of flowers
Mom showed us in picture books;
red roses, purple orchids, orange marigolds.
The clouds look like brilliant birds and flowers today.
Mike and I imagine flight and color and life in them
as we jump over the sprawling cracks in the sidewalks,
as we pick bright yellow dandelions
from overgrown yards, knitting
them into Mother’s Day bouquets.
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