Through looming holes
in the sky
tumbled
piles of keys,
singleton white socks
and riches of spare change.

Chalk letters
from all the blackboards erased
cluttered the landscape.

In dugouts sat weeping men on benches
living an eternity
of just having lost the World Series.

Square houses with triangle roofs
lined the dead-end street that nobody ever turns down;
gardens of cartoon flowers
lost in the attic
grew in primary crayolas.

I met an old professor
with shocks of white hair
trying to escape from his head.
Today's stacks of lost papers cluttered his desk,
and yesterday's on the floor
and last year's in a mountain behind
his old, forgotten office.