There are cracks
Letting sunlight pass
Even where day
Doesn’t reach

Through the ruins
Of childhood mornings
Hiding plastic bins
Under stairs –

Another old spoon
Turning gold
From that cereal box
Nearly empty

Or my figures found
After moving
Besides novelties
Worth only dust,

With a bulb
Over basement steps
Guiding their path
Towards remembrance

Below creaking boards
Speaking softly
Such delicate whims
Calling haunts

Which chase me still
Going home
Since descending deep
Into memory

For one last bowl
Watching TV
While cartoons play
Better dreams.

Creeping shadows
Never quite change
Knowing innocence
Lives as our echo –

Those feelings real
Grown immortal
When time alone
Cannot hear

What specter calls
Beyond lies
And scares lost men
Thinking bleakly

How leaving toys
Means maturing
But instead just brings
Bitter ghosts.

• J. Pigno