New Carolina City

They call it New Carolina City.

The women dress in bluebell skirts

and all the men look like lumberjacks.

The children are always running, always

desperately out of breath but never

willing to slow down.

In the morning a woman with

hair the color of fresh wax fixes me

blueberry pancakes as she kisses her son’s face,

caressing his cheeks with her

porcelain doll fingers. The sweet scent

of maple makes me dream of my own.  

Nice day to fall in love says a man

in a blue suit to a woman in a gingham dress.

She puts her hair behind

her ears and smiles, a significant gap

between her two front teeth.

It’s the first night of fall and people

gather in the park with lit candles.

An old timer sits under the vermilion sycamore tree

and plays bluegrass on his banjo. I find

you on a bench, drinking sweet tea

and swaying softly.