The Ecstasy of Gold
1964, ( somewhere on Route 66,
New Mexico, enroute to New Jersey )
I dreamt of elongated aisles aligned with molded
silver and a nut-wrapped sticky something
that wasn't leftover chicken or deviled eggs
with pickles and paprika. I was just a little girl
neonatal, like dough left to rise in warm glass;
an armadillo tongue curling up the inside
of my mouth and a continual loop transmitting,
"Desert sand, endless...a foreign and barren
tumbleweed mulling away distance." But it
was just my mother broadcasting, "Breakfast
time kiddies, orange and lemon poppy-seed
muffins so wake this instance!" Her voice flooded
the dormant backseat with Route 66 daybreak.
Siblings sauntered for juice under fluorescent
bulbs of Stuckey's where silver collector spoons
and pecan nut logs filled with creamed nougat lolled
in displays. All I had to my name was scarcely
a dollar of change in my wadded pocket of jeans.
Listen, I learned this while I chewed: "Happy
are those who dream dreams and are willing
to pay the price to make them come true."