Droopy, the eighth dwarf, weathered and calcified from the sun’s careless beating.
Droopy, a drop lowering, a waxy wave of wonder. A candle too hot to return to itself flows into something anew.
A feeble-bodied waterless man of the desert, pulling, clawing forward disappears.
A swayed back horse out to pasture, the golden years that evolved from silver.
A sliver for its minuscule stature delivers its package with a thud, breaking the box’s insides and taking up lodging with its muddy boots on a threadbare stool.
The oranges, yellows, and red of the yarn weave, their hues of decades prior, no longer exist. But it does, this stool, in its droop, in its one was ness.
In each of our once was ness is a magnifying drop of rain, bulbous and buoyant, and ready to be popped into like Mary Poppins’ sidewalk. Onto the world the other side of was or is and never will be.
Going On 40 