Put teacher in first place.
Search for an ideal.
Muddling around in crowds,
I envision my success.
The goal seems dismal ‑‑ far away.
There is a stalemate between
my past and my future.
A tired boy is thrown around a lighthouse.
On each small arc he is radiated outward.
Small dreams on the tip of each finger
constitute an entire being. The eyes are
shrimp‑sized in a night of elephant‑sized
clouds.
I spin the wheel, and I wait.
Dreams never really happen.
The waiting brings me down.
Tapping on raindrops,
exhilaration practices through my
fingertips. What is in my soul?
Struggle out of the melee.
Always struggle.
I swing into the lighthouse.
I sit beneath the spiral staircase.
A box is affixed to the wall.
I will wait for redemption.
No, I will open the box.
What is in the box?
Permission to go on?
Forgiveness?
Ben Beyerlein
is a writer and artist living in Glen Ellyn,