Leveler Poetry Journal
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The School of Naps


A nap on the farm was as common as a two-headed sheep.

This is why Meredith never learned to nap.

I, on the other hand, was encouraged to dream whenever

I wanted. In naps or in nap-like afternoons I smothered

in imagination. An only child is the parent of its parents,

a dictator with a small bedroom. I guess they had coherence,

those days in the close suburban yards and modest shrubberies

when I imposed my will on my impractical, summery

family. I’ve always had trouble getting things done since.

I seem to be walking along a floor mounted on springs.

When you’re happy you have a responsibility to those who are unhappy

to do your best with it. Even if it ends badly.

Most of my choices are bad and good interspersed,

like wearing a motorcycle helmet while riding a horse.

Erik Kennedy